


a marriage (and other mishaps)

by zoeyclarke



Category: Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (TV)
Genre: AU-Canon Divergence from 1x07 onward, Awkward Conversations, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Waking Up Married, because jane levy and skylar astin have my whole heart, i need to stop but i'm not gonna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 73,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23338207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeyclarke/pseuds/zoeyclarke
Summary: Zoey and Max accompany Joan and Leif on a business trip to Las Vegas. Their presentation goes well— so well, in fact, that they spend the rest of the night partying.Cue the next morning, when Zoey wakes up in a hotel room that is not hers with a ring on her finger that she doesn't recall wearing before.
Relationships: Zoey Clarke/Max Richman
Comments: 327
Kudos: 294
Collections: Favorite Zoey/Max Fics





	1. viva las vegas

**Author's Note:**

> i have a bad track record with multi-chaps when it comes to updating, but i'm feeling good about this one. i've fallen hard for this show and the characters, and i have to exercise my writing muscles somehow during this quarantine, so here goes nothing!
> 
> this story relies on a very alternate 1x07 in which there is no awkward flash mob in a mall food court (because yikes), and thus zoey still has no pressing need to reveal her power to max yet. otherwise just about everything else should be the same as canon. i hope anyone who sees this has as fun a time reading it as i had writing it! see y'all at the next chapter :)
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "viva las vegas" by elvis presley

“Okay, we’re gonna make this meeting quick and painless, because I have a date with Alone Time at three and she does  _ not  _ like it when I’m late,” Joan says, not slacking on her brisk tone for a second. She circles back around her desk and drops down in her chair, scooting forward to pound what must be an intense email into her laptop’s keyboard.

Zoey and Max stand on the other side of her desk, blinking with wide eyes like a pair of owls. Considering the way their boss had quite literally dragged them into her office from where they’d been congregated with the others at the cereal bar, they now feel very exposed surrounded by nothing but clear glass walls in the dead center of their workplace. As expected, several curious pairs of eyes keep flickering back to them from computer and phone screens.

They’d been brought here so quickly, in fact, Max hadn’t found the time to set down his bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. He wavers awkwardly elbow to elbow with Zoey, holding the plastic bowl with both hands as if it’s a precious breakable family heirloom.

Joan glances up at her subjects for half a second. “Well, at least one of you can sit,” she says, motioning to the lone chair in front of her desk. “It’s not an electric chair, I promise.”

Immediately Max snags Zoey’s gaze and nods at the chair, allowing her to take the seat. Unfortunately at the exact same time, Zoey mutters, “You can sit, it’s fine.” This leaves them at a stalemate, during which they both pause before talking over each other: “Really, you can have it.” “No, it’s okay, it’s yours.”

The laptop on the desk slams shut and they both jump, again turning their attention to Joan, who emits a loud groan which definitely leaks through these cursed glass walls. “Okay, you know what, now neither of you Indecisive Isabels get to sit.” 

Zoey swallows a grimace which scrapes her throat on the way down. Well, so much for this being painless. There was a point, she thinks, when interactions with her best friend weren’t so freaking awkward, but those times are apparently a far-off, distant memory now. If it weren’t for her stupid power, she would never know how Max feels about her. He was able to hide it so well and keep their friendship normal— so why can’t she?

“Alright, now listen,” Joan finally begins her spiel, which is punctuated by quiet crunches from Max as he picks at his cereal. “Next month Leif and I are attending a convention in Las Vegas to present our project, and though he’s been denying it, I think— Max.”

Max freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“The crunching. Not while I’m talking, okay? Make it stop.”

“But the... it’ll get soggy if I don’t— okay.” Max wisely zips his lips and stops eating. When he drops the arm holding the spoon, his skin grazes Zoey’s and she tries her hardest not to fidget. She’s grown comfortable enough with Joan the past few months— to the point of irresponsible (but fun) day drinking together in this very office— but something about the stern look their boss is giving them today is really making her squirm. 

“Anyway,” Joan sighs, “I think we need some assistance with our presentation, you know, compiling all the background details and organizing how we want it to go. In order for him and I to focus on that stuff, I’m bringing you two in to do the actual product demo at the conference. You both are a couple of the top performers this month, so I’m putting my trust in you. We’ll give you a whole tutorial on how to use the device, what to use it for, yada yada, so you don’t look clueless. Then you’re gonna stand up on the stage and smile and look pretty and make our gadget look appealing. Capiche?”

Zoey chooses not to remind Joan of all the help she’s provided for the development; clearly the credit for this thing is intended to be a Joan and Leif only affair. And, what the hell, she supposes Leif deserves the recognition to cushion his bruised pride after those scathing peer reviews. (Not that she’s on board with the odd and frankly disturbing secret romance she accidentally witnessed the beginnings of a few weeks back.)

“Uh, yeah,” Zoey says when she realizes nobody has spoken for almost half a minute. “Sounds great. Can’t wait!” She smiles just a  _ little  _ bit wider than necessary, and luckily that seems sufficient for Joan.

Max twirls his spoon around in the milk and nods brightly. “Yeah, awesome. I’ve never been to Vegas before. Always wanted to go.”

“Did you now?” Joan asks, but steamrolls over whatever he was planning to respond with a curt, “Vegas isn’t the point, Matt,  _ tech  _ is. There won’t be a lot of time for partying it up and losing a million bucks in the casinos.” She sounds almost disappointed by this prospect, which doesn’t surprise Zoey one bit. “In fact, getting drunk on the minibar is probably your best bet. Not that I’m paying for that, though.”

Zoey stifles a laugh at the use of “Matt.” She can only hope Joan is messing with him and isn’t seriously using the wrong name, but she can’t be so sure.

They seem to be on the verge of dismissal, but of course Joan has one last thing up her sleeve. “Oh! And one more thing. Are you two together or not? Because I’m tired of all the whispering around going on. I tried not to care but now I do because I want the gossip to end.”

The words pounce out of literally nowhere and hit Zoey directly in the kneecaps. She steadies herself on the unoccupied chair and mumbles, “Um... what— what are you talking about?”

Joan stares at them unimpressed, as if Zoey just asked how to write out an input tag in HTML. “You’re kidding,” she deadpans, but it falls flat when all she receives in return are two equally bewildered looks. “You’re not kidding? Wow. Okay. So you’re telling me you two  _ haven’t  _ overheard everyone speculating about you? Like, speculating to the point where less work is being done, which is where my problem with it comes in.”

Max looks like he’s choking on a stray Cheerio. He manages to stammer out a strained, “No... no, we’re— we’re not—”

Zoey leaps to fill in his blank. “We’re not together. We’re definitely not a thing,” she confirms. “Just friends.” At that, Max gives her a strange glance, one that lingers, and Zoey can’t decide between ignoring it or making a mental note to ask him about it later.

“Okay, then act like it.  _ Please,”  _ Joan says. “For the sake of my sanity, if nothing else.”

Max finally snaps out of his trance to point out, “Uh, we can’t control how other people perceive us.”

Joan leans forward on her desk and narrows her eyes at them. “Or  _ can  _ you?”

“No, we can’t.”

“Whatever,” Joan concedes, snapping open her laptop again— a clear act of dismissal,  _ finally.  _ “Just figure it out before the trip, alright?”

_ Why don’t you and Leif tell everyone about your several apparent romps in the sheets together?  _ Of course Zoey wouldn’t dream of voicing that, because she wants to live past twenty-eight, but she can’t help feeling a little hurt that Joan hasn’t confided in her about her new “relationship.” They’re close enough to have gone out for drinks together a few times; but then again, here Zoey is now, feeling like she’s lying to Joan’s face although she isn’t, because her and Max  _ aren’t  _ together.  _ Whatever,  _ she tells herself, deciding to brush it all away with that one lovely dismissive word. And anyway, Joan has technically outed herself and Leif to Zoey more than once through song, and all Zoey has to say about  _ that  _ is one seductive cover of Taylor Swift’s “22” is one too many.

She and Max step out of Joan’s office, and because awkward silences are grating on her nerves, Zoey tries to pep him up with a friendly shoulder bump. “So. How’s it going,  _ Matt?”  _

He doesn’t bite, though, instead spinning to face her before they can return to their desks. “Zo,” he says seriously. His eyes are wide and the deepest shade of brown Zoey has ever seen, and she’s never thought about swimming in someone’s eyes until now. “What happened back there?”

She frowns. “What do you mean? We told Joan that—”

“She didn’t react to it, and you didn’t either, but— you  _ sang,  _ Zoey.” At her blank face, a fraught laugh spurts out of his mouth like he’s a broken faucet. “Are— are you telling me we’re just gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”

Something icy like dread hollows out her stomach. Unsure how to respond, she needs a second to compose herself before replying, “It  _ didn’t  _ happen, Max. Seriously, what are you talking about?”

Max’s face falls completely, and he ducks his head. “Alright, fine. We’ll pretend it didn’t happen. But it was  _ weird.  _ And it was about...”

Zoey almost doesn’t want to know, but she prompts him anyway. “About...?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” He shakes his head, turning around abruptly to return to his desk. But before she can sit down as well, he’s able to perk up again and he fixes her with a lopsided grin and raised fist which almost sends his cereal bowl sailing across the room. “We’re going to Vegas!”

With that, unmistakable banjo music is piped into the room and Max hops back up out of his chair. A while ago, Zoey would’ve reacted to this with dismay, maybe even horror; but now it’s only resignation (and just a sliver of enjoyment).

_ Bright light city gonna set my soul _

_ Gonna set my soul on fire _

_ Got a whole lot of money that’s ready to burn _

_ So get those stakes up higher _

Max steps back, then runs at his wheeled chair with full force, landing with his knees pressed into the back of it. He’s launched across the space all the way to Zoey’s desk, where he holds her face and leans close for just a moment before pushing himself back the way he’d come, all the while channeling Elvis with a smug smirk.

_ There’s a thousand pretty women waitin’ out there _

_ And they’re all livin’ devil may care _

_ And I’m just the devil with love to spare _

_ Viva Las Vegas, viva Las Vegas _

Just as abruptly as it began, the musical number ends and Max sinks back into his seat with an innocent grin once again aimed in her direction. Zoey swears she can hear him humming still, however faintly it may be.

Zoey gives a halfhearted fist pump in return. “Hell yeah we are!” Then she sits down in her seat, scoots up to her computer, and tries not to let the wave of panic overtake her completely.

* * *

_ A hotel room in Las Vegas, three weeks later _

The first thing that hits Zoey is ferocious, blinding sunlight. It slices through a slit in the curtains and smacks her directly in the face, and with that she’s awake. The next thing to hit her is a headache, one of those pounding, skull-bruising ones that come along with a hangover.

Then there’s the nausea. As if she’d rolled over onto a thumbtack, Zoey springs up out of bed. Her legs are tangled in the nice white hotel sheets and she doesn’t manage to free herself until she’s partway across the room, leaving them in a crumpled mess on the carpet.

She splashes cold water on her face until the nasty feeling passes, because she hates throwing up. It’s only when she reaches for the hand towel that she actually takes a moment to scan over the belongings around the sink— and they’re definitely not hers. Jaw dropping to her feet, Zoey looks more closely at the toiletries, and with a start she recognizes the comb, of all things. She only knows one guy who would drop way too much money on a premium men’s detangler comb, then cover it with babyish stickers so that no other dude would “steal it” at work. (The reality is that, well,  _ Frozen 2  _ was a really good movie.)

After that alarming discovery, Zoey then risks a glance at herself in the mirror. She’s clearly still in last night’s clothes, which she takes to be a more reassuring sign as to the events leading up to her  _ not  _ spending the night in her own hotel room. Her dress— way too modest for Vegas, she remembers Joan criticizing the night before— is rumpled and one sleeve is torn. Her pathetic face wash wiped off most of the remaining makeup, but some stubborn mascara has still managed to migrate down her cheeks. Grumbling, Zoey snatches up a tissue and gets rid of the smudges. Then, with an overwhelming sense of trepidation, she shuffles back out to the room to face the consequences.

Just as she expected, her sleepover companion has a very familiar face. Max’s face is soft with slumber, lips parted slightly as he burrows deeper into the sheets. When Zoey peers closer, she recognizes the once-crisp white button down he had on last night under the suit he wore to the convention downstairs. A swift inspection of the room reveals a few other discarded pieces of said suit: his jacket is slung over a lamp, and his bowtie isn’t far from the door, where it looks thoroughly stepped on.

Still reeling, Zoey perches herself on the foot of the bed and scours her mind trying to remember last night. It terrifies her that she can’t recall anything useful. Maybe once she wakes up more, and has some coffee and a decent breakfast, she’ll be able to recall what the hell happened after their presentation— wait. Presentation. It was successful! Right! Everyone loved them, called her sharp and Max charming, and then in celebration Joan took them and Leif out for drinks afterward, and then... did they get separated? Damn it, usually she’s a functional drunk (key word being usually). Why can’t she remember?

A fresh stab of pain bites into Zoey’s brain, and she leans forward, pressing her forehead into her hands. Okay, before breakfast, she needs an aspirin. Or two. Or three. And she needs to get out of this dress, she can barely breathe in it anymore.

Zoey is just about ready to rouse Max— in fact, she’s literally reaching toward his shoulder to gently shake it— when she notices something on her left hand. Feeling like she’s trapped in a slow motion sequence, she raises her hand but keeps it stretched away from her, as if it’s developed its own conscience and might slap her for her own stupidity.

On her fourth finger, real as can be, is a thin silver ring that she’s  _ certainly  _ never seen before in her life. Zoey isn’t a big jewelry wearer (necklaces tend to clash with her collared shirts, while bracelets and rings get in the way of her typing at work), so she is well aware of the approximately two rings she owns, both of which are gifts from her mom. And this silver band is not one of them.

Then she sees something else. Max has once again shifted in the bed, and in his sleep has thrown his left arm over the empty side previously occupied by Zoey. She darts over and picks up his limp hand. Max is definitely not a jewelry wearer either, she  _ knows  _ this, she would’ve noticed if he had started wearing some gaudy class ring or something. So what the  _ hell  _ is this silver band, a silver band nearly identical to her own, doing on his ring finger?

And then, just to add something else to the pile, there’s a knock at the door. “Max?” Joan’s voice sounds like she’s walking the line between hungover and authoritative. “You in there? I need your help tracking down Zoey, she wasn’t answering her door.”

Max sits up so fast Zoey thinks she hears his spine crack. Right away his eyes land on her, and for the first time since she got her power, Zoey actually  _ wishes  _ to be sung to so that she can know exactly what he’s feeling. But no song happens, and his face remains frustratingly guarded with only a hint of obvious surprise.

“Zoey?” he whispers, brows knitted together. “What— what are you doing—?”

_ “Shhh!”  _ She all but slaps her hand over his mouth. “Listen, just... stall Joan for a few minutes, and I’ll figure something out.”

Max nods numbly, then stumbles over to the door while rubbing the last of the sleepy glaze out of his eyes. Zoey presses herself against the wall, safely out of sight of the doorway, and tries to formulate a plan that doesn’t include wondering about the rings they’re both wearing.


	2. hands clean/talk too much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoey and Max continue to regain their bearings the morning after, but get nowhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a new chap ahead of tonight's episode! i really hope max isn't such a whiny b*tch this time around, i really didn't like him in 1x07. fingers crossed!
> 
> i also just want to say how much i appreciate all the love i received on the first chapter. i was honestly stunned to get so much feedback from a relatively small/new fandom. thank you guys, you're all amazing <3
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "hands clean" by alanis morissette and "talk too much" by coin.

Max swings open the door and offers Joan what must be a frightful smile. “Hey, Joan,” he croaks. “Good morning to you.” If he looks the way he feels, then surely he looks like a truck ran him over, turned around, and ran him over a second time. What Joan says a second later confirms that.

_“Woooow._ If a hangover started walking and talking, you would be it, Matt.” She tries to peer around him into the room, but Max stiffens and holds his ground, casually leaning to fill any negative space in the doorway. “And you sure have unusual taste in pajamas,” Joan adds, giving him a disinterested once-over. “But I’m not one to judge... at least not to your face.”

The nervous energy crackling in the room behind Max makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He has only been awake for forty-five seconds, but he has a distinct feeling if he doesn’t direct Joan somewhere far away from this hallway, she’s going to discover something that probably shouldn’t be discovered. Also, he really doesn’t want to make Zoey resort to climbing out the fifth-floor window to escape their boss’s scrutiny.

“You, uh.” He rubs his face. “You said you’re looking for Zoey?”

Steered back on track, Joan’s teasing expression smooths into her typical professional appearance— at least, as professional as she can be despite also looking like a wreck from last night. Not that Max plans on sharing that, because he values his life.

“Yes, I can’t find her. She wasn’t answering her door. She’s in 563, right?” At Max’s nod, she groans. “I’ll be honest with you, Matt, I have no clue what the hell happened last night, and that makes me more than a little concerned for her safety. Were you with her last night after the group split up?”

Max hesitates a moment, mulling over his options. If he tells her he wasn’t with Zoey last night, it might send Joan into a panic and the entire SWAT team will be summoned to this Marriott. But if he tells her he _was_ with Zoey, that could bring up a whole load of questions he isn’t sure he wants to answer. Oh well, he supposes; the latter is the lesser of two evils. 

“I was,” he tells her, treading slowly with his words while his brain catches up with what is sure to be a long-winded lie. “And then I... wasn’t.” Then he hits a brick wall. So much for a well-thought-out excuse. God, he’s going to need the strongest black coffee the Strip has to offer.

A skeptical dent forms in Joan’s brow. “... right. Then what? You ditch her for another... _ahem..._ female companion?” Once again her eyes try to sneak in between Max’s arm and the door jamb, but she doesn’t succeed.

Max wouldn’t dream of ditching Zoey; what kind of asshole would that make him? He bites back _“That’s none of your business”_ and instead mumbles, “That didn’t happen, trust me. Um... I think last night Zoey told me that... she was going to, uh, get an early start today and... jog to... the nearest Starbucks?” It comes out sounding like a question, but he hopes his grimace-turned-smile makes up for it.

“We’re talking about the same Zoey, right? The one who had so many vodka shots last night that she thought a random man on the street was her dad, and then started sobbing because she couldn’t believe he was walking again? Is Zoey’s father alright, by the way?”

“That’s... a story for another time,” Max says. “But you seriously remember that?”

Joan looks stunned too. “The memory just came back to me. Vividly. It wasn’t there a minute ago.” She shakes herself as if the memory is a fly that will buzz away. “Anyway, I doubt our Zoey, our _hungover_ Zoey, really wants to go jogging to Starbucks at six in the morning or whatever.”

“Well, she did,” Max insists. “And that’s where she is now. I promise.” Joan stares at him for several heart-pounding seconds, but he stays firm and doesn’t budge an inch in the doorway, which he is literally straining to fill with his entire body. “She’s probably gonna be back soon. Maybe if you go check the lobby, you’ll catch her walking, or jogging, in.”

“Alright,” Joan huffs. “I’ll go do that.”

“And I’ll get dressed.”

“You sure that’s necessary? Looks like you’re all spiffed up and ready to go,” Joan quips, motioning at his wrinkled shirt and dress pants, leftovers from the conference that are now very uncomfortable after being slept in. 

Max plasters on a tight-lipped grin. “I’m sure. See you in a bit, Joan.”

After she reminds him of their flight to catch in a few hours, she _finally_ takes off down the hall, heels somehow clicking on the carpet because Joan just has that energy about her. With an enormous sigh of relief, Max closes the door and allows himself a moment to breathe and try to reacquaint himself with reality, because he feels like absolute shit.

But apparently reality isn’t ready to be friends with him again just yet. Because when Max pushes off the door and returns to Zoey, he finds her hunched over the end of the messy bed, rifling through her purse and tossing things out of it in every direction. “Phone,” she’s mumbling to herself. “Phone, phone, where is my phone?”

Max ducks to dodge an airborne tube of lipstick. “Do you wanna use mine?” he asks, reaching to grab the device, which is miraculously unharmed, from the nightstand.

A broken old watch from work and a tissue sail past his left shoulder before the assault comes to a temporary halt. “Use your what?” Zoey asks absently, before her eyes land on what he’s holding out to her. “Oh, thank you. I have no clue where the hell I left mine.” She must remember what his passcode is, since before he can even open his mouth to tell her it, she’s already in and swiping rapidly on the screen.

Max gives a broken chuckle and sits heavily on the bed facing her. “You’re not calling 9-1-1, are you? Because I swear, I don’t know how you ended up in my room, Zo.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” she jokes. “But no.” She makes one final tap, then a second later they hear the beginnings of a well-known song—

_When I wake up, well I know I’m gonna be,_

_I’m gonna be the man who—_

Zoey emits a cry that startles Max to full awakeness. She dives for where the sound is coming from— somewhere in the mess of sheets that were dragged nearly to the bathroom entrance— and emerges with her phone. She answers the call then immediately hangs up, tossing the device back among her scattered belongings on the bed. “Ha. Thought I left that bad boy on vibrate.”

“It appears you didn’t,” Max smirks. “Interesting song choice.”

“Oh, well, I mean— I have that ringtone for everybody,” Zoey says quickly. Her words come out so fast they run into each other, and Max has known her long enough to know that means she’s skimming over the truth a bit. It accentuates the ill feeling in the pit of his stomach, but for non-hangover-related reasons.

Max bites his tongue and watches her stuff all the random objects back into her bag. He bends to retrieve the fallen lipstick and watch. “Seriously, though, do you have _any_ recollection at all of what happened last night? Because I got _nada._ Like, my brain is mush.”

Zoey shakes her head, swiping away the hair that falls in her face when she does so. Max briefly wonders how such a simple act can be done so adorably, but then pushes the thought away just as he’s accustomed to do with all his thoughts of a similar nature. “Nope,” she answers as he goes to pick up the crumpled tissue and throw it out. “In fact, I have a terrible headache which _probably_ explains why last night’s events are blocked out of my mind.”

“I have aspirin with me somewhere, hold on,” Max says, promptly dropping everything and speeding into the bathroom to hunt for the pill bottle in his toiletries bag. He leaves what he thought was a used tissue on the bed, because it turns out it’s actually some kind of paper.

“Oh, no, no, don’t worry about me, I’ll just go back to my room and take some of mine. I should start packing up anyway, I...” Zoey trails off, laughing miserably. “Why didn’t I sneak out of here when I had the chance?”

Max digs up the aspirin bottle and pauses, hating the way his brow furrows when he hears her say that. _How pathetic can you be?_ He emerges from the bathroom and can’t stop the question before it slips out— “You were gonna just... leave?”

But Zoey has gone abruptly silent. She’s smoothed out that folded paper and is staring down at it with an unreadable expression on her face. She doesn’t even react when Max rattles the pill container and sets it next to her. Then, because his brain is pulsing uncomfortably too, Max decides to pop a couple aspirins sooner rather than later.

It’s only when Max is returning again from the bathroom with a plastic cup of lukewarm tap water, trying not to admire how good his best friend still looks in that blue dress even after sleeping in it, that he takes notice of the new decoration on his left hand. He puts down the water and plucks the ring from his finger, turning it around in the light from the window. “Zo, did you put this on my—”

She blows out a ragged breath that sounds more like a balloon popping. Worried about the condition of her lungs— and more so, _her—_ Max stops in his tracks and stares at her.

“Okay,” Zoey begins, the paper trembling in her hands, “now, I don’t want you to freak out, because believe me, I’m already doing enough of that for the both of us.”

Max blinks. _Well, that’s comforting._ “... what is it?” he asks suspiciously.

Zoey opens her mouth, considers, then silently hands over the paper.

Max scans over it. It’s a marriage certificate, and not one of top-notch quality, considering how easily it was crushed into a ball at the bottom of Zoey’s purse. But then again, why would she be carrying around a marriage certificate of all things?

So he looks it over again. Then again. Then a fourth time. And now the paper is shaking in his hands as well.

“What...” he breathes out, unable to conjure up words, let alone any useful ones. “What is... this isn’t _real,_ is it?”

Zoey audibly gulps. “I don’t know. It... it looks pretty real to me.”

Max stares at the paper, at their names printed clearly on it, at their signatures, which are sloppy but clearly authentic. He recognizes his own scrawl, and he knows by heart the extra squiggles she adds at the end of her name in cursive. Now he’s almost scared to look at her. Instead he examines the strange ring he found on his finger a minute ago. “So that would explain this.”

In reply, Zoey holds up her left hand, revealing a similar silver band. 

“It just... it doesn’t make any sense. How do neither of us remember doing this?” Max demands, letting the certificate flutter down onto the bed. “And where did we find the money for it? And the rings? I... I don’t understand.”

Zoey reaches up and fastens her hands on his shoulders, which isn’t the easiest task with their height difference. She holds him steady and manages to keep her voice just as level, which is a great reminder as to why she makes such a great supervisor at work; she always strives to keep people calm, and make sure everybody’s happy before working toward a solution.

“Max, listen to me. I’m sure there’s some kind of explanation behind this. We can go back to the place we went to last night, and talk to them about it, and figure out... whatever the hell we were thinking.” Zoey’s hands start to move down and rub his biceps, before they both stiffen and she severs the contact. “I mean, we’re just married, that’s... no big deal.” The uncertainty now crouching behind her words is very obvious, and neither of them believe what she’s saying for a second. Unfortunately, Zoey keeps rambling on, as Zoey tends to do. Normally Max drinks up whatever she says like it’s a fine wine, but now it makes him feel like he’s pressed both his cheeks against lit stove burners. “We’re just married... a couple of pals, married... yeah. I mean, it’s not like we”— she makes a hand motion in the small amount of distance between them, and Max can’t figure out if it’s an obscene gesture or not— “it’s not like we, uh, _did..._ you know. Anything. Since we’re still wearing the same— anyway! It’ll be okay. We’ll work this out, Max, I promise.”

Max lowers his head and tries not to think about how he’s somehow exchanged rings with the girl he’s been in love with for the better part of a year (oh, who’s he kidding, he’s loved her since he met her years ago), and how he doesn’t even remember _doing_ said thing. He’s skipped to, like, Step 32 in the Manual for Wooing Zoey Clarke, which he’s been writing in his head and totally making up as he goes along. Now he might as well trash the entire book, because it’s not like he was ever acting on his feelings anyway— until now, apparently.

He has to give those big, worried blue eyes some kind of response, so Max answers, “Okay. I believe you. Let’s just... let’s get some coffee and breakfast in us, then we can try to do something before we have to go to the airport.”

Zoey nods, evidently out of words for now. Before she can leave, though, Max shoves the aspirin bottle in her hands. “Please, take it. I’m sure you need it even more now.”

She mumbles out a thanks and he watches her go, unconsciously returning the ring to his finger. Really, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.

* * *

Luckily Zoey is able to evade Joan while creeping down the hall to her own room. She has a distinct feeling that could be the only dose of luck she’s getting today, though. There isn’t much time before they’ll have to catch the taxi to the airport, so she zooms through her usual morning routine, throwing on a polka-dotted blouse and the nicest pair of jeans she owns (and the only ones she brought, considering this is still a business trip though it no longer feels much like one).

She runs a brush through her hair, tugs it back into a ponytail because she’s sweating profusely, then crams all her things back into her suitcase. She’s just about to slip out the door when she hesitates by the floor-length mirror. The ring is still on her hand and she didn’t even realize. _Maybe because it belongs—_ She stops that thought before it can come to fruition. Nope. No way. It’s just that it fits her finger nicely, it’s well-sized, and not flashy or anything. _That’s_ why it’s so comfortable.

Zoey starts to slide it off and stick it in her pocket, but something compels her to _not_ do that. She stares at herself in the mirror, toying with her lower lip nervously. _What if Max still has his on? Then I’ll look like a terrible person if I don’t. But if he’s taken his off and I still have it on, it’ll just look sad. Right? Oh my god, why didn’t we discuss this ahead of time? Not to mention if Joan isn’t knee-deep in one of her self-absorbed moods, she could notice..._

With an exasperated groan, Zoey decides to leave it on, but cross her arms so that it’s hidden, and then subtly take it off only if Max has. There. That works...

... right?

It better, because suddenly Zoey is downstairs and walking into the hotel’s breakfast area. She finds Max and, to her dismay, Joan and Leif sitting together around a table in the corner. Before Zoey can even make it past the fruit bar, however, she hears an invisible guitar strum out the opening notes to an unfamiliar song. And, of course, the musical is taking place at her coworkers’ table.

Max and Leif continue to pick at their food, hungover and very unaware, while Joan has a renewed energy to her as she stands up out of her chair and wraps her arms around Leif from behind.

_If it weren’t for your maturity, none of this would have happened_

_If you weren’t so wise beyond your years_

_I would’ve been able to control myself_

_If it weren’t for my attention, you wouldn’t have been successful and_

_If it weren’t for me you would never have amounted to very much_

Zoey clasps her hands and stands awkwardly, observing Joan’s graceful strut around the table.

_Ooh, this could be messy but_

_You don’t seem to mind and_

_Ooh, don’t go telling everybody_

_And overlook this supposed crime—_

Joan slows her singing, swaying side to side as she comes to a stop behind Leif’s chair again, petting his impeccably-styled hair and smoothing out his sweater.

_You’re essentially my employee and I like you having to depend on me_

_You’re kind of my protege and one day_

_You’ll say you learned all you know from me_

_I know you depend on me like a young thing would to a guardian_

_I know you sexualize me like a young thing would and I think I like it_

She repeats the chorus again, and though Zoey has a feeling there might be more to this heart song, it ends there with her boss once again seated in front of three emptied coffee mugs. Zoey swallows the tiny bit of bile that came up in response to that display, then she proceeds forward and takes the only open seat, which is of course right next to Max.

“Hey, Zoey!” Max says with a little too much forced cheer, but she appreciates that he’s at least trying. She forgets to check if he still has his ring on, instead trailing her eyes up his (right) arm— which is very buff, not that she’s noticed on purpose— to where he’s pointing at a fresh cup of coffee. “I got you a vanilla latte from the coffee machine thingy over there. It’s probably not as good as they make it at Golden Gate Grind, but still.”

“Thanks!” Zoey chirps, inwardly cringing at the automatic lack of poise in her tone. She takes a sip of the drink, sweet steam swirling into her nose, and yeah, it’s not as good as Autumn would’ve made it, but that’s for the best. It’s not like they’ll ever be treading _those_ shark-infested, java-infused waters again.

A beam of morning sun cuts through the window, landing directly over their table. “Ugh,” Joan mumbles, producing a pair of sunglasses and sliding them on her face. She’s the exact opposite of the spirited flirt Zoey witnessed a minute ago, but she doesn’t blame her. _At least she still has that spirit somewhere in her head, I guess?_

But then, even though Zoey managed to escape from Max’s room undiscovered, her boss still finds a way to ambush her. “So, Zoey,” Joan says, swirling the dregs in her fourth cuppa, “how was your _jog_ this morning?”

Zoey can’t see her eyes through the shades, but she suspects they would be narrowed if they were visible. Absolutely clueless as to how she should respond, Zoey flicks her gaze over to Max, who is currently performing a cruel science experiment that entails using his fork to lightly stab the bacon on his plate into a second death. Then Zoey feels a gentle nudge from under the table where he bumps his knee against hers meaningfully. _Okay, so that’s what he told her I was doing this morning... how very believable._

“It was... great,” Zoey answers, grinning stiffly. “Yeah... you know me, I can never resist a nice, brisk morning jog around the block.”

Joan hums. Zoey is pretty sure her interest in this subject waned ninety percent once she asked the initial question. “Hm. I was surprised you were up for it after the time we had last night. Definitely _not_ my wisest decision to date.” She plants an elbow on the table so she can lean her head on one hand. “Nor any of yours’. But I won’t tell.”

“It was a fair choice, if I do say so myself,” Leif speaks up. Though he looks a bit worse for wear, he still didn’t sacrifice on his typical well-groomed style. “As expected, everybody loved the Chirp _and_ we found a company that’ll mass-produce it. How is that not a momentous occasion?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Joan admits. “It was definitely worth it.” Zoey resists doing a double take at that response; she’s never seen Joan yield in an argument so easily. And if the tiny smirk on Leif’s face says anything, it means he’s also taken notice.

* * *

It’s ten in the morning, and their plane back to San Francisco doesn’t leave until two-thirty, so they have not a lot of time to figure this shit out. Joan gives them a weird look when they announce that they want to explore the nearby area one last time before going, to hell with time constraints, but she’s in too much of a dissociative state to protest much further.

Zoey and Max step outside into the relentless sunlight, which both immediately try to shade their eyes from. “Okay,” he says, squinting at the walking directions on his phone. “It says this way.” He points and Zoey follows him down the sidewalk, which is pretty empty considering the time of day.

“You’re sure we’ll get there quick enough? Maybe we should grab a Lyft or something,” Zoey says, practically jogging to keep up with his long strides. (Ha ha, looks like she’s getting a jog in today after all!)

“I think we’ll be fine,” Max assures her. “It says the... uh, chapel... is only an eight-minute walk away.”

Zoey’s cheeks warm, and she’s glad the brutal heat can be used as an excuse for that. But then, before she can reply, Max starts really picking up the pace out of nowhere. Zoey frowns and soon she’s running in jeans in eighty-degree weather, which is not her favorite pastime. “Max! What are you doing? Wait up!”

Bouncy pop music floods her senses, and Zoey’s jaw drops. “Really?” she groans. “Another one _already?”_

Up ahead, Max continues with his rapid gait, spinning around like nobody can see him (which is basically true). Zoey has no choice but to chase after him, and as sweat clings to her back, she decides she hates being in the desert.

_Caffeine, small talk_

_Wait out the plastic weather_

_Mmhmm, uh uh, discussing current events_

_I’ll take my time_

“Will you really?” Zoey grumbles in response; all their fellow pedestrians on the sidewalk move aside for Max, but not for her. She narrowly avoids smacking into some poor guy, and has no choice but to turn his dog into a hurdle that she barely clears in time. “Because it doesn’t _seem_ like you’re taking your time,” she snaps, swatting loose hair out of her face before soldiering on to the beat Max has laid out in her path.

_I’m not the forward thinker_

_You read my mind_

_Better to leave it unsaid_

_Why can’t I leave it unsaid?_

Max neatly jumps over a couple of orange striped sawhorses set up by a construction crew around a literal gaping hole in the ground. There’s no way in hell he would ever attempt that in real life, but this is in Zoey’s head so of _course_ he’d show off like that. Zoey careens around the construction site, straining to hear his peppy vocals.

_You know I talk too much_

_Honey, come put your lips on mine and shut me up_

_We could blame it all on human nature_

_Stay cool, it’s just a kiss_

_Oh, why you gotta be so talkative?_

_I talk too much, we talk too much_

Zoey’s heart stutters at a few of those lines, at the way his (admittedly incredible) voice warbles around the lyrics. It makes sense, because she knows about his background in musical theater, but how can it be that she’s never once heard Max, like the _actual_ Max, not in-her-head Max, sing? She really would love to.

At long last, she catches up with him right as his phone chirps, “Arrived.” The song fades out, but not before Max leans in toward her until their noses are practically touching. His face softens, and somehow he’s not breathless when he sings,

_Silence is golden, and you’ve got my hopes up_

_We talk too much_

_No hesitation, what are we waiting for?_

_We talk too much_

The number ends with a final brief riff, then the rest of the world’s noises resume around them, car honks and overlapping voices, all very unfiltered and very unmagical.

Max is no longer leaning in toward her, but Zoey can still feel his hot breath clouding around her mouth. She swallows hard and tries to catch her breath.

“See? Not so bad. That was a quick eight minutes,” Max says, but he frowns when he notices her heavy panting. “Are you alright, Zo? Why are you breathing so—”

“I’m fine,” Zoey gasps out, waving him away. “Fine. Don’t worry... ‘bout me.” To put his mind off the subject, she spins to glare through the sun-drenched air at the building facing them. “‘The Little Vegas Chapel,’” she reads the sign. “Well, it _definitely_ looks little. So little you could almost miss it.” _And yet somehow we didn’t last night._

She starts to take out their hopefully-phony marriage certificate, but then Max says, “It’s also _definitely_ closed. What the hell?” He walks forward into the shade under the building’s canopy and Zoey follows. Sure enough, there’s a ‘Sorry, Temporarily Closed’ sign taped up on the front door, hastily written in what looks like crayon.

“Wow, that’s... bad,” Zoey says.

“I know, right? They forgot an ‘r’ in ‘sorry,’” Max agrees, but he falters at her death stare. “Oh, I mean, yeah, this isn’t good. I mean, they obviously were open last night. And Google says they should be open now.”

Zoey consults the certificate for what must be the millionth time this morning. “And this is definitely where we got... well, you know.”

Suddenly there’s a cough behind them, and the startled pair whirl around to find an older chubby man looking to be in his mid-to-late sixties leering at them. Zoey feels Max’s hand light on the small of her back before they start to back away, but then the guy pipes up, “Say, you two look familiar.”

Max clears his throat. “Do you— are you the owner of this place? Or do you know who is? Because we really need to talk to them about—”

“Oh! I know!” the stranger interrupts, throwing up his hairy arms. His Hawaiian shirt is unbuttoned nearly all the way down to his belly button, and Zoey has to avert her gaze if she doesn’t want to throw up in her mouth for the second time this morning.

“You know what?” Max asks.

“You two are the Richmans! My buddy married y’all last night. You were quite a riot, the two of you, but this one’s a crier,” the man explains, jabbing a thumb at Max while flashing what Zoey swears is a gold tooth. God, they hung out with _this_ _guy_ last night?

Then a delayed reaction to the use of “Richman _s”_ hits her, and it hits her directly in the stomach. “What— what did you say?” she croaks.

“No, um, that’s— that’s what we’re here about,” Max says, also clearly struggling to keep his composure. “We’re trying to... _reverse_ what happened last night.” He snatches the certificate from Zoey and shows it to the guy. “Do you know who we could talk to about this?”

“Ohh,” the guy hums. “Well, I’m afraid that there’s a done deal.”

“What?” Max and Zoey snap at the same time.

The stranger chuckles and shakes his head. “Reverse _that?_ No can do, my friends. That’s a legally binding document which both of you signed. In the eye of the law, you two are married until you take action in a divorce court.” The words he’s spitting out are very sophisticated despite his disheveled appearance, but Zoey appreciates that he’s at least using plain enough jargon for them to understand that they are, indeed, royally fucked.

She rakes through her mind trying to think of something that could render the document invalid. Then it comes to her— “Witness!” she blurts out. “If we didn’t have a witness, then it can’t be valid, right? Isn’t that a thing?”

The man laughs again, to her chagrin. “I was your witness, Ginger. It counts.”

_This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening._ Again at the exact same time, both Zoey and Max groan out a dramatic, “Oh my _god!”_

“Not gonna lie, you two seem very suited for each other. Rather than finishin’ each other’s sentences, y’all just say the same darn thing. Anyway, best of luck to ya.” With that, the guy shoves between them and unlocks the door before disappearing inside with a final phlemgy cough.

Zoey and Max are left staring at each other. As he uncrosses his arms, she thinks she catches a glint of silver on his left hand, but she can’t be sure.

Hours later on the short plane ride home, she slouches down in her seat, puts on her headphones, and blasts Katy Perry’s “Waking Up In Vegas” on repeat between murder podcasts.


	3. can't help falling in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoey's family welcomes a new addition (besides Max) while she ponders what she'll have to face in the near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is a bit of a filler chapter to give zoey the chance to interact with other characters! i guess filler chapters aren't usually supposed to be this long, though, so... oops. but i promise after this one, we'll be back at sprq point (and getting some more max pov... and more heart songs!)
> 
> again, thank you a million times over for all the support. i'm gonna say this every time, but i love you guys <3
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "can't help falling in love" by haley reinhart (yes, another elvis song, but the haley reinhart version is my favorite!)

“If this is your way of convincing everyone you two are not a thing, you’re doing a very poor job at it.”

“It was an _accident,”_ Zoey insists, using all the hand motions she can as if that will better emphasize her point.

“Was it, though?” asks Mo, striding over from the stove to pour hot tea into Zoey’s cup. “Both of you _did_ buy rings and sign the paper. It’s not like you just stumbled in there and they were like, ‘Boom, married.’”

Zoey resists slamming her head on the table; instead, she folds her arms and rests her forehead on them, mumbling only just loud enough for her friend to hear. “We were drunk, Mo,” she sighs. “Very drunk. I’m never drinking again, by the way.”

She sits up to blow on her tea and take a sip, but Mo snatches it away from her. When she glares at him, he flashes her an innocent simper. “What? You said you’re never drinking again, Zoloft. I’m not letting this expensive earl grey go to waste if you’re not gonna appreciate it.”

“You know what I meant,” Zoey says miserably, and thankfully Mo takes pity on her and nudges the cup back in her direction. After she downs several mouthfuls— not enough sugar, she decides— she goes on, “And anyway, even if it was on purpose for our _drunk_ selves, it definitely wasn’t on purpose to our sober selves. It was an on-purpose mistake. One that we’re... really gonna be paying for.” With that realization, she stifles a mournful wail and smothers it in another gulp of scalding tea.

Mo eyes her already-empty cup and shakes his head in thought. “Listen, hon, it’s not the worst thing that could have happened.”

Zoey stares at him in disbelief and pours herself more tea.

“Really! All you did was what, sign away your maiden name— I hate that term, by the way— and give yourself and Max a hilarious story to tell everyone at the office. I mean, who would’ve thought you’d somehow beat Simon in getting hitched?”

Both points pin Zoey to the wall like darts, but it’s the first one that she’s hung up on more. She sits upright in her chair, which screeches back against the kitchen floor. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “I’m— I’m Zoey _Richman_ now. Aw, _crap,_ Mo, this is bad, this is _really really_ bad.”

“That just sunk in?” Mo deadpans. Under his breath, he adds, “You’re a Richman, but you still ain’t any more rich.”

Zoey’s almost at the point of pulling out chunks of her hair, but she knows in that case, Mo would make some comment reminding her that his kitchen floor shouldn’t look like the floor of a hair salon.

“I mean, if I’m Zoey Richman, then... I’m not even _myself_ anymore. Think about it— I’ll have to change my driver’s license, my passport, and like a million other documents—”

“Hold your horses. We are going in the opposite direction we were a minute ago. First off, you are still _yourself,_ Zo-Zo. You’re still the same Zoey you were before you left for Vegas, maybe a notch or two more panicked than usual. But you’re still _you_ and don’t think otherwise for a second.”

Zoey blows out a steadying breath. “You’re right. Thanks, Mo.”

 _“Now,”_ Mo continues, holding up a serious index finger that gives Zoey pause, “if you’re not happy about this arrangement, then you shouldn’t be thinking about changing all your information. You and Sir Max-a-lot need to be marching up to the courthouse ASAP.”

Zoey nods quietly. She knows that, once again, he’s right. Mo is rarely wrong, even when he takes a more scenic route in getting to the point. 

Lately she’s been trying to balance out the amount either one of them vents, so that their friendship is more fair. So, she decides to shift to a happier topic next. “So,” Zoey hums around the lip of her cup. “How are things going with Eddie?”

“Good,” Mo replies. “Very good. So good, in fact, maybe you’ll be hearing wedding bells over our heads soon.”

Zoey lifts her eyebrows. At least this is a relationship she can avidly support, unlike the one between Joan and Leif she’s been an unwilling witness to at work _and_ in Vegas. “Really?” she says. “That’s... awesome. Fast, but... awesome.”

Mo rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. You’re one to talk about getting married fast, Mrs. Richman.”

Zoey scowls, but the expression is ruined by the smirk she lets turn up the corner of her mouth. “Hey,” she protests. “Let's _not_ talk about that anymore.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, just know that your temp-hubby will probably be the last man who’s stood shirtless in my apartment who isn’t my Eddie,” Mo says, topping off his tea and stirring it noisily, an indication of his excitement. 

Against her wishes, Zoey’s mind wanders away from her, out of her control. She remembers the night of Simon and Jessica’s engagement party, when she walked in on Mo helping Max get ready. She can’t deny it— he looked _great._ If she closes her eyes, she still has the image of shirtless Max imprinted perfectly behind her eyelids, because for that one moment she suddenly developed photographic memory. And boy, what an image to remember— the lean, toned build, the chiseled outline of abs peeking out, the downy dark chest hair, the _nipples—_ okay, she needs to stop. (But really though, she shared a bed with him, mere inches away from... _that.)_

“Mmm,” Mo exclaims, bursting Zoey’s inappropriate thought bubble. “I really do love that man. He’s like one of those rosé gummy bears, I could eat a hundred of him and never get sick of it.”

Zoey almost asks him why he’s talking about Max like that, but no, Mo’s still referring to Eddie, of course. It’s _her_ who’s thinking things about someone she shouldn’t be thinking those things about. God, this is too complicated.

An hour later, Zoey sleepily yawns her way back across the hall to her own place. She pauses next to the door, glancing at the geeky “Everything’s Under CTRL” poster that refuses to sit correctly on the wall. She’s grown to like its crooked stance, because now more than ever, she realizes it’s a representation of her life.

* * *

The next morning is a Monday, and Zoey decides to call in sick. She’s sure Joan won’t blame her (that much) for wanting to extend her recovery, and her boss doesn’t even know the entirety of what Zoey needs to recover from.

And Max... well, she really doesn’t want to see him or know what’s going through his head right now. The way they left things departing the airport on Friday was not exactly satisfactory; it included a messy hug-turned-weird handshake/fist bump hybrid and mumbles of “Catch ya later.” Zoey sincerely hopes she didn’t add “alligator” to the end of that statement, but she can’t be so sure. She doesn’t trust herself. The chances of Zoey ever _not_ being an awkward human being are about as likely as her ever wearing fewer than two layers to work.

She knows she can’t put off seeing her best friend— her _husband,_ god, she can’t even wrap her head around that— forever, but for now she’ll push it off as long as she can without putting her job at risk. (And that’s not even mentioning the next person on Zoey’s To-Avoid List, one Simon Haynes, with whom things are still very weird. Yeah, Zoey can go without seeing his pretty face for one day. In the past, when she was all alone in her apartment on a Saturday night, wine drunk, she could stalk Jessica’s Instagram page to see more of him, but that’s impossible now since she’s been kind of... blocked.)

At first Zoey plans to spend the day with herself, Chinese takeout, and that fancy ten-dollar face mask she’s been saving (just one glance at the bottle of pinot sitting in the back of her fridge still makes her stomach wobble uncomfortably, so she’s skipping that for now). But when she steps out of the shower to find two missed calls from her mom, those plans go out the window.

Zoey immediately hits the call back button before being fully dressed, because anything could’ve happened. It could her dad (and that falls under a whole new category of _anything),_ it could be her nephew making an early unscheduled appearance, it could be that David and Emily are getting a divorce and it’s all Zoey’s fault because she couldn’t keep her nose where it belongs (or rather, her power wouldn’t let her mind her own business).

Unsurprisingly, Maggie answers on the first ring. Before Mitch’s health started rapidly declining like an unmanned scooter on one of San Francisco’s nearly-vertical hills, her mother was always bad about keeping up with texts and calls. But now she babysits her phone like it’s a third child.

As it turns out, the mystery event is one of Zoey’s initial guesses, and luckily it’s not the worst case scenario. “Hey, Zoey. Emily went into labor last night around seven,” Maggie’s voice crackles from where Zoey threw her phone on her bed. “I spent the night with them at the hospital. Your father’s at home with—”

“Whoa, wait, wait,” Zoey says, struggling to catch up. She hops on one foot over to the bed while similarly struggling to put on a sock. It’s on speaker phone, but she leans close to the device anyway, something which isn’t necessary also because her voice has already raised several panicked octaves. “Last _night?_ Why didn’t you call me then?”

“Well, I know you just got back from that big business trip, and you have a lot on your plate for work. Besides, having a baby takes a while, honey. I didn’t want to rope you in until things were actually getting somewhere.”

With one final valiant tug, Zoey manages to get one sock on. With a grumble, she starts to work on the other one, which fortunately puts up much less of a fight. “Yeah, it was... it was a big trip, alright.” _She doesn’t even know the half of it._ “But really, Mom, it would’ve been fine. I wanna be there.” Zoey dives into her closet and emerges a second later with a jean jacket, her favorite with the NASA patch over the breast pocket. “Also... it’s like, three weeks early. Is she okay? Is he okay? Is Dave—”

“Everyone is fine,” Maggie assures her, her voice cutting through like a firehose to tamp down Zoey’s worried flames. “There was some concern at first, but she’s progressed well and now they’re saying he could come anytime within the next couple hours.”

Zoey gives a giant, freeing sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Thank god.” She finishes sliding on her jacket, fluffs out the hair that got stuck in it, and nestles the phone between her shoulder and ear. “Okay, so, what do you want me to do? Go check on Dad, or come see you guys at the hospital?”

“Your father is well taken care of, honey, don’t worry about him. I’ve been sending them frequent updates,” Maggie says. “Why don’t you head over here as soon as you can. I’ll text you the room number and other info. I know you have work, but—”

“Actually, I happened to take today off,” Zoey interrupts with a chuckle. “Of all the days I could’ve picked, I picked today. Lucky me!”

“That’s wonderful!” Zoey can hear the smile intertwined in the words that follow. “Good. So you can be here with us when it happens. I was really hoping you could be here, since...” Maggie trails off, but they both know the end of that sentence. “Well, anyway. Again, I’ll text you everything, and while we’re waiting I wanna hear all about that business trip of yours! I know it was a major one.”

 _Yeah... I’m not sure how much of that you’ll actually want to hear,_ Zoey thinks with a grimace. At what point should she start withholding details— the inappropriate bar-hopping with her boss, the whole getting blackout drunk thing, or the part where she accidentally married her best friend? But out loud, all she says is, “Sounds great. See you soon, Mom.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too! Bye.”

Zoey ends the call and lets the phone fall back on her bed for a moment. She stands there, staring up at the ceiling and trying to organize her feelings. But unlike code, her feelings can’t just be shoved in between brackets or backspaced into oblivion. Here she is, about to become an aunt, and she has absolutely zero control over her own life. What kind of role model does that make her?

 _Oh well,_ she figures. _At least this kid will be too young to remember how much of a wreck his Auntie Zoey was when he was born. I better clean up my act fast._

* * *

Within twenty minutes Zoey is at the hospital, and after breezing through the downstairs gift shop, she is armed with baby boy balloons and ready to meet the newest member of the Clarke clan. _Even though you’re no longer a Clarke,_ a nagging voice reminds her. _But let’s not think about that for now._

To say she’s not a fan of hospitals would be an understatement. Especially considering her last visit here was because of her dad’s fall, she has trouble associating this place with _good_ events, such as what’s happening today. Zoey steps out of the elevator onto what she hopes is the correct floor, and tries to ignore the sterile white walls closing in on her. She then takes off briskly down the hallway as if it’s possible to outrun the uneasy feeling ignited by the unmistakable scent of hospital hand sanitizer.

Zoey hears her mom before she sees her. “Oh, Zoey, great! You made it!” She spins around to find herself already wrapped in Maggie’s arms. Her tears of joy render Zoey’s shoulder damp in seconds, so when they pull back Zoey shrugs off her treasured jean jacket and throws it over her arm.

“Here I am,” she chuckles, feeling tears crowd in her own eyes just at the sight of her mother crying. “It was a long and perilous Lyft journey, but I have arrived to bestow gifts upon the newborn prince.” With that, she waves the balloon strings so they bob side to side cheerfully. In her other hand is the teddy bear that had the least crooked eyes in the gift shop downstairs. “Because, y’know, I already gave them the gold, frankincense, and myrrh at the baby shower.”

“You have no idea how much I need your humor,” Maggie sniffles, yanking her daughter into one more hug. “Everyone here is so stony-faced and serious, I’m sick of it.” She lets Zoey go and uses her sleeve to dab at her eyes. “Anyway, you have perfect timing, my love. He arrived barely a minute after we hung up.”

 _“What?”_ Zoey nearly drops the teddy bear. “I thought it would still be a few more hours.”

“Well, it was sixteen hours of labor. I guess he decided to finally cut his poor mom a break,” Maggie laughs. She leads Zoey down the plain white corridor to a window looking into a room. A privacy curtain is partially pulled across the window, but there is a crack they can peer into; when Zoey is able to find the right angle, she catches a fleeting glimpse of her newborn nephew, swaddled in her sister-in-law’s arms. Her brother has scooted his chair as close as physically possible to Emily’s bed and is stroking their son’s head. Before Zoey is able to utter out some semblance of awe, there’s a gentle flutter of piano keys.

_Wise men say only fools rush in_

_But I can’t help falling in love with you_

_Oh, shall I stay, would it be a sin_

_Oh, if I can’t help falling in love with you?_

_Like a river flows, surely to the sea_

_Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be_

_Take my hand, take my whole life too_

_Oh, for I can’t help falling in love with you_

Zoey has seen David and Emily sing a duet before, but that one was rather charged with angst. This duet is gorgeous and it draws out all the tears perched on the edge of Zoey’s eyelids.

“Wow,” she breathes, pressing a hand to the glass. “Look at them.” She wishes her mom could hear what she is hearing right now, because it only adds to the moment.

“I know,” Maggie nods. Her words are barely a whisper. “I know.” They stand there, soaking in the dopamine, until it’s abruptly shattered. 

“For a while your father and I thought we’d have to rely on you for grandkids,” Maggie says, and Zoey tears her gaze away from the window to stare at her with wide eyes. “Your brother was a real wild card for a few years. We weren’t sure we’d ever find anyone to bring him back down to earth.”

Zoey is reminded of her brother’s struggle a few months back, one that put his marriage on the line and had him and Zoey at each other’s throats for the first time in years. Not all that long ago, she envied David for being settled in life, being _married,_ and she’d been so annoyed that he was taking that for granted out of fear that he couldn’t sufficiently raise a son. Zoey still remembers having that point of view, and getting a little drunker than necessary at her brother’s wedding out of harmless jealousy. But _now..._

“Yeah,” she snorts in response to her mom. “I’m glad Dave sorted things out, because at the rate I’m going now you won’t be getting any from me.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “Oh, stop, honey. You’re still so young. Life marches along at a different rate for everybody.” There’s a pause, but it’s not long enough because Zoey nearly gets whiplash from the sudden change of subject. “Have you called Max, by the way?”

Zoey is standing still on even ground, but she nearly loses her balance anyway. “Uh, what?” she asks, and it comes out way too high-pitched. “Why— why would I do that?”

Her mom shoots her a curious look. “Because he’s basically part of the family, Zoey. I just thought he might want to know.”

 _He is part of the family, Mom, he’s your son-in-law now, remember?_ The thought isn’t physically spoken but still Zoey chokes on it. She nods rapidly and mumbles something to appease Maggie for now: “Uh, yeah, you’re right. I’ll call him... later.”

* * *

After some time David steps out of the room looking like he’s swimming among the clouds. Maggie and Zoey both jump up out of their chairs, starving for information.

“Please tell me I can hold my grandson soon,” Maggie pleads.

“Soon, I promise, Mom. Everybody’s just... exhausted at the moment. And his birth weight was a tad bit low, so the doctor wants to make sure he gets as much nutrition as possible in the first couple hours.” David massages the uneven stubble on his cheeks while his jaws split into a giant yawn. These days Zoey rarely sees her older brother not in his work suit, and today is no exception, though the outer jacket and perpetually-loose tie were discarded long ago.

“You really should change, honey, you look so uncomfortable,” Maggie fusses, reaching to tug his shirt collar away from his neck.

“That is not my priority,” David sighs. “Em has put in a request for food, and she wants a lot of it. I gotta run down to the cafeteria before they’re out of tater tots.”

Maggie crosses her arms and nods. “Alright. Zoey, why don’t you go with him? I’ll stay posted here. It’s about time I give your dad another call anyway.” Zoey’s stomach plunges at that mention; it’s yet another reminder that with this new life, their family is also on the cusp of losing one.

A few minutes later sees Zoey riding the elevator back down to the main floor with her brother. “To be honest, I doubt the hospital cafeteria would ever run out of tater tots,” she quips to fill the silence. “That would be a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

David gives her the odd face he always makes in response to one of her crappy jokes. Zoey sticks her tongue out at him.

“Okay, so,” she says over the ding of the elevator arriving on the ground floor. She follows him over to the bustling cafeteria, and he’s walking as if Emily is timing him with a stopwatch. (Hell, she probably is.) “I hope you guys have finally decided on a name, because you’re kinda out of time.”

“Yeah, we did,” David replies, snatching up a tray and swiping just about every flavor of yogurt from the cooler. “You wanna hear it?”

“Yes, Dave, that’s why I asked.”

“I don’t like your attitude, missy.”

Zoey glares at him and grabs some snacks for herself and their mom. “Just because you’re a dad now doesn’t mean you have to go all dad on _me.”_

“Fine. We named him Zachary Mitchell Clarke,” David tells her. After grabbing three paper boats full of tater tots, they make their way to the register. At her suddenly thoughtful expression, he flashes her a half-smile and hands money to the cashier. “Thought it’d be nice to continue the Z-name precedent set by our parents.”

They only make it halfway back to the elevators before Zoey drags him into a tight hug. David pats her back with a chuckle. “C’mon, Zoey, you’ll make me cry for like the thirtieth time today.”

“Sorry,” she sniffs, letting him go so they can catch a ride back upstairs. “It’s just... I have a lot going on right now. Today is so, so great, but it’s honestly pushing me over the edge.”

David frowns at her. “Why, what happened?”

“It’s nothing, really. Today is your day, we don’t need to talk about me—”

“Zoey Stinkyface Clarke, it obviously isn’t nothing if you’re bringing it up,” David interrupts, unamused. “Talk to me. Besides, god knows you’ve helped me in recent history. Just make it quick before the tots get cold,” he adds, pointing at the overloaded tray he’s holding.

Zoey groans and presses back against the elevator wall. “Ugh, fine. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but then again— you actually could help me, like _actually_ help.” They disembark but stay at one end of the hall for a minute.

“Well, I’m all ears.”

She opens her mouth, pauses, pops open a bag of pretzels, stuffs a handful in her mouth, chews, swallows, then says quietly, “Okay, so I have a problem. A pretty big one. You know my recent work trip to Las Vegas? My coworkers and I, um, we kinda partied it up on our last night there. I’m still blanking on most of what happened, but then the next morning, lo and behold, I’m somehow married to Max. Courtesy of one of those sketchy Vegas chapels and copious amounts of alcohol.”

David nearly loses his grip on the heavy tray. “Max? Max Richman?”

“The one and only,” Zoey says. Before he can respond again, she leans forward and tries to look as stern as possible. “And please, _please_ don’t tell Mom about this. I- I don’t even know how she would react.”

David twists his mouth in thought. “I won’t tell, but in all honesty, I don’t think she’d be devastated or anything. You know Max has had her and Dad’s stamp of approval from pretty much the moment they met him.”

Zoey bites her lip and nods in reluctant agreement. “He did introduce Dad to In-N-Out’s chocolate milkshakes.”

“That he did,” David says. “But anyway, this is a problem because...?”

“Because,” Zoey snaps automatically, but then she comes up short of a real answer. She has to think for a second or two before finding something. _“Because,_ David, he and I are _not_ in a relationship. We jumped right from friends to— to, well, married friends. It’s not what either of us want—”

“Presumably.”

“Dave,” she warns. “I’m just saying, this is... this whole thing is insane and not what I need in my life right now. So, you know, we’re... we’re gonna have to figure out how to get the marriage dissolved.”

Her brother hums and pops a tater tot in his mouth. “I’m a public defender, not a divorce lawyer. But I can tell you, depending on which direction you take this and who you get to represent you, this can be a piece of cake or very difficult.” 

“What do you recommend?” Zoey asks, impatience buzzing in her fingertips.

“I’d recommend,” David says, taking his time gnawing through another tot, “seeking a divorce over annulment. On the surface annulment looks like the easier route, but if the marriage is indeed considered valid then you’ll have to start from scratch and it’ll be a hell of a lot more expensive.”

Zoey stays silent a minute, letting that information sink in. Something about tossing around the words “divorce” and “annulment” makes her stomach bob like the balloons from the gift shop. Still, she knows this would be inevitable. She can’t push away reality forever, and neither can Max. They’re just friends, and people who are just friends shouldn’t be _married._ It doesn’t make sense.

She steps forward and gives David one last fleeting hug. “Thanks, doofus,” she mumbles into his chest. “You’re the best.”

“I try.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Zoey reaches into her purse and pulls out the teddy bear she bought earlier. “Here’s a furry friend for Zach. You can tell him his Auntie Zoey searched far and wide to get him the finest, least crazed-looking teddy bear in the hospital gift shop.”

David accepts the bear and turns it over in his hand. “It’s pink,” he points out.

“So what? It’s his first pink bear, then.”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

Zoey doesn’t return home until much later that night, and she doesn’t set eyes on her phone until she’s settled on her couch in pajamas. She has a bowl of still-warm popcorn sitting next to her, fresh out of the microwave, but she can’t bring herself to turn the TV on just yet. Instead she’s staring down at her phone, swiping back and forth from one screen to the other. Her email inbox is overflowing with crap from work, but she doesn’t plan to deal with that until tomorrow.

No, it’s another thing she’s deliberating. She promised her mom she would call Max tonight and tell him about the new baby, and yet... she also promised herself she wouldn’t allow herself to see (or hear) him until tomorrow.

“Dammit,” Zoey hisses through her teeth. _Just do it, just get it out of the way, make it fast, and don’t reference the elephant in the room. Even if it’s a very noticeable, very stinky elephant._

And with that, she hits the call button on his contact page, or at least she thought she did— but then out of nowhere, Max’s face is filling her screen and her exhausted, makeup-free face is in the upper corner. Zoey starts to panic, but then she remembers he’s seen her in all kinds of wacky face masks on FaceTime before (including one that looked like a tiger, which he insisted complimented her hair weirdly well), so what’s different now?

“Max,” she says, forgoing any traditional greeting. Some movie she’s already watched a dozen times on Netflix is waiting for her, after all. 

“Hey, Zo,” he says. He offers her a small smile but nothing else beyond that. Yes, the elephant is very much in the room despite them being a few miles apart.

“I just, um,” she scratches behind her head while he watches attentively. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m an aunt now.”

Now his smile widens. “Oh my god, that’s awesome! Wow. As of today?”

“As of today,” Zoey affirms. “Zachary Mitchell Clarke. Five pounds, six ounces. He’s a little dude, but he’s strong and healthy.”

Max is wearing a mask of elation, the kind of face that’s usually preserved in photo albums. Zoey wonders if it’s possible for heart songs to be transmitted over FaceTime, but all Max replies is, “That’s so great. Congrats to you guys. I’d love to see him sometime soon... maybe.”

Zoey swallows hard. “Yeah... maybe.”

It’s clear the conversation has run its course, which is weird because Zoey has never had a FaceTime call with Max shorter than twenty minutes (not counting that one time Simon interrupted). So she mutters her goodbyes and prepares to hang up, because she’s tired and anything else they could have to talk about is too much for her to confront right now.

“Wait, Zoey, just... one more thing.”

“What?”

“Thanks,” Max says. “For telling me. Thank you.” He only lives some blocks away from her, but the screen between their gazes might as well be a million miles thick. 

Zoey rubs her nose and stops looking at him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” Before he can fully respond, she ends the call and resists throwing her phone over her shoulder. She slouches down on the sofa and counts water stains on the ceiling. She doesn’t know _what_ exactly she wants to get out of tomorrow, but she’s sure whatever happens won’t be what she expects. Life doesn’t ever seem to cooperate with her anymore.


	4. infatuation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened in Vegas; then Zoey returns to work and finds out some interesting news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to mention this with the last update, but we were seriously FED last episode! 1x08 is my absolute favorite so far, despite the lack of mo. and because i enjoyed it so much, i couldn't resist taking some inspiration from a particular scene in that episode (probably not the one you think, sorry; i adored the "i'm yours" sequence very much, i promise)
> 
> next chapter will be picking up immediately after the end of this one, so the wait won't be long to find out what max wants to talk about. as always, i love you guys, you're all so sweet and supportive and i'll never stop appreciating you <3 enjoy this one!
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "friday i'm in love" by the cure, "a lovely night" from "la la land" (a seriously superb movie, you'll love it if you love zep!), and "infatuation" by maroon 5.

_Last week, Las Vegas_

He told himself he would suppress these thoughts in the same way he always does, but Max can’t do it. Not tonight. Zoey Clarke is too gorgeous for him to ignore that fact, and he’s spinning her in his arms in a club in Las Vegas on a Thursday night and this is so _right._

He still thinks often about the song she sang in Joan’s office a few weeks back. He’s thinking about it even more now, with alcohol dulling the edges of his mind. The border between logical and thoroughly irrational is blurred in Max’s brain; the line was drawn in chalk, after all, and he’s since poured two or three or, shit, four rum and cokes over it, leaving it to disperse into oblivion. (When did he reach four rum and cokes? Oh well, doesn’t matter, all he knows is he needs another one.)

Zoey stays close to him, holding on to him like he’s the only other person she knows in the entire world. Her blue dress, formal and sophisticated with its high neckline and the respectful place it hits just above her knees, clings to her body almost as closely as she’s clinging to him. A few hours ago, it seemed perfect for the stuffy conference and presentation they totally rocked, but now— now it’s a perfect dress for going out dancing, like it was made for _this_ and like it’s totally not from the sales rack at New York & Company, as Zoey sarcastically boasted to him earlier. It was a cheap dress, she said, but it really brings out her eyes and makes them glow, so to Max it’s priceless. He told her that and she snorted, and said something only Zoey Clarke would say (she really should think about trademarking her wit): _“Well, however much priceless is, this dress cost thirty percent off that.”_

Now she suddenly slips out of his grasp, glossy hair sliding between his outstretched fingers like grains of sand. He watches her sidle up to the bar and yell an order to the bartender over the skull-pounding music. Then a moment later she returns to him with a filled shot glass in each hand, holding them high above her head to prevent them from being knocked to the floor in the heart of the fray.

“Tequila!” she shouts, offering him one. As the night has progressed, they’ve both found that communicating in stunted one or two word phrases like cavemen is best. It gets the point across and results in less straining to hear.

Max hesitates, but then he watches his typically reserved best friend toss the shot back with nary a wince. Why is he overthinking this? They _deserve_ this! They deserve to have fun after months of late nights drying their eyes out in front of a computer screen and inviting early onset carpal tunnel from hours of typing code.

So he lifts the shot glass to his lips and tilts his head back. The alcohol cooks his throat like battery acid, leaving a burning warmth behind his sternum. It fades when his eyes land on Zoey again, so he focuses on her and nothing else around them. If the rest of this dance floor’s occupants transformed into a pack of rabid hyenas, not only would Max not notice, but he would happily be eaten alive if he could be eaten alive at Zoey’s side. Hell, his feelings for her are already doing the same thing, anyway.

After a few more minutes they get tired of holding the empty shot glasses, so they meander back up to the bar and leave them on the counter. Max’s gaze snags on the stage in the back, and he’s reminded of the entire reason he picked this particular spot in the first place. He leans down until his lips brush Zoey’s ear, which he totally-definitely-probably didn’t mean to actually touch.

“Karaoke,” he says, catching her eyes and pointing over his shoulder toward the stage, where a scruffy guy who looks like he got separated from a bachelor party is poorly singing Bon Jovi.

“What?” Zoey squeaks. She shakes her head. “No. No way. Joan and Leif—”

“We lost them ages ago,” Max replies. “I think they’re still at the— _hic—_ casino.”

Zoey tries to blink the glaze out of her eyes, but it doesn’t work. She tilts her head and asks, “The... the casino? The place with all the loud spinny machines?”

“That’s every casino, Zo,” Max says, and right away she lets out a guffaw and jabs an index finger into his gut.

“Ha, gotcha! See, I’m funny, Max... wellington. Maxwellington. Is that clever? That’s clever.”

“If I laugh, will you do karaoke with me?” He wants to sigh, but giggles tumble out of his mouth instead. Oh well, at least that means he’s won.

Zoey groans a little but relents, and she allows him to lead her in wading through the thick, heated air all the way back to the stage. Somehow they end up holding hands, and it’s so natural that Max doesn’t feel it at first. They make it to the back, and he scribbles their names on the sign-up sheet. It takes some twenty minutes for their names to be called, and they’ve almost forgotten about it by the time _“Maaaaax and Zoooooey!”_ are uttered into the microphone.

“Oh shit, I forgot I agreed to this,” Zoey complains, but Max only smiles at her. Those shots, and the few more that followed, have now hit his stomach and launched out into his bloodstream. If there was ever room for embarrassment at one point, there certainly isn’t anymore.

They stumble up onstage and Zoey aims for a mutter into his ear which winds up tickling the side of his neck instead. “What are we gonna sing?” 

“It’s a surprise,” Max tells her. A second later, the DJ puts on the choice he’d scrawled along with their names on the sign-up sheet. As the tune picks up, Zoey stares at him with an unhinged jaw, but she picks it up off the floor to join him in trying to keep up with the lyrics in their inebriated state.

_I don’t care if Monday’s blue_

_Tuesday’s gray and Wednesday too_

_Thursday I don’t care about you_

_It’s Friday I’m in love_

_Monday you can fall apart_

_Tuesday Wednesday break my heart_

_Oh, Thursday doesn’t even start_

_It’s Friday I’m in love_

_Saturday wait_

_And Sunday always comes too late_

_But Friday never hesitate_

They’re an absolute mess, but it’s a mess that earns them a barrage of encore requests from the crowd below them. Max is all too happy to oblige, because before tonight he had never heard Zoey sing except for that one time in Joan’s office. Now that he’s heard her voice, spirited with an underlying drawl he didn’t know she was capable of, he can’t imagine having ever lived without knowing what her singing voice sounded like.

“Come on, Zo!” he begs. “Let’s give ‘em what they want.”

She slicks back the frizzy hair that’s fallen in her face and nods. “Fine. But what?”

He already knows what to pick. He hops down to slur his request to the DJ and hopes the words are in the correct order, then he climbs back up and wraps his arm around Zoey’s shoulders. “You’ll love this,” he promises. 

The song starts off quiet, and he sees the confusion cross her face. Max starts to back away, crooning softly into his mic, which feels like putty in his hands due to all the sweat.

_The sun is nearly gone_

_The lights are turning on_

_A silver shine that stretches to the sea_

He takes his time shuffling back towards her, reaching out an arm before slowly pulling it back to his chest in a fist. The entire time he stares only at her, because where else would he look?

_We’ve stumbled on a view_

_That’s tailor-made for two_

_What a shame those two are you and me_

Max comes to a halt still a few feet away from her, and at last recognition highlights her face, fighting to be seen behind the deep blush already coloring her cheeks. Zoey smirks and waits patiently for her part of the duet to begin while Max continues, spinning around her.

_Some other girl and guy_

_Would love this swirling sky_

_But there’s only you and I_

_And we’ve got no shot_

_This could never be_

_You’re not the type for me_

_“Really?”_ Zoey mutters into her mic, and an intrigued hum ripples over the listening crowd. Max goes on with his part—

_And there’s not a spark in sight_

_What a waste of a lovely night_

To his surprise, Zoey sticks out a hand and plants it on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. He watches her intently as she flips her hair over her shoulder and struts away from him across the stage.

_You say there’s nothing here?_

_Well, let’s make something clear_

_I think I’ll be the one to make that call_

Max knows the song’s little quips by heart. Right on cue, he raises his brows and says, _“But you’ll call?”_ Zoey offers him an impressive eye roll and resumes.

_And though you looked so cute_

_In your polyester suit_

_“It’s wool,”_ Max protests, and in flawless harmony Zoey continues right on as if he hadn’t interrupted.

_You’re right, I’d never fall for you at all_

_And maybe this appeals_

_To someone not in heels_

_Or to any girl who feels_

_There’s some chance for romance_

_But, I’m frankly feeling nothing_

Max gulps; he knows this is just a song, and these are just lyrics written by someone else. And yet, despite the alcohol-induced haze in his brain, his deeper feelings still try to glare through. He almost misses his line, but manages to get it in the nick of time: _“Is that so?”_

 _“Or it could be less than nothing,”_ Zoey trills, coming back over to him and still very much putting up an act. Or so he hopes.

 _“Good to know,”_ Max sings, and god, why did he pick this heart-stomping song? _“So you agree?”_

Zoey gives a curt nod. _“That’s right.”_

Rendered breathless, they turn together to face their entranced audience and finish: _“What a waste of a lovely night!”_

The song ends and they both fall into a clumsy bow. Zoey looks at him as they rise back up. “Did that just happen in real life?”

Max has no clue why she would ask that question in particular, but he’s not sober enough to answer questions with questions, so he says, “Absolutely.”

The thoughtful stare she gives him is as gentle as her smile. Then the moment ends and she turns back to face their newfound fans. “Thank you, thank you!” Zoey bellows into the microphone. “We’ll be here all night! Except... not actually, because I’m... kinda tired. _Woooo!”_

The crowd mimics her _“woooo”_ while Max and Zoey exit the stage. She trips on her way down and catches a sleeve on a sharp corner of the platform, but Max grabs her before she can hit the ground. The lyrics follow them all the way across the dancefloor and out the door, whereupon Zoey eagerly undoes the straps on her heels and leaves her feet victim to the dirty sidewalks. Max spares a glance at his phone; it’s nearing midnight, but with all the neon lights dotting the Strip, it’s bright enough to be noon.

“I think,” Zoey slurs, using her arm like a cane to pull Max close to her like in one of those old-fashioned cartoons, “I think _we_ are gonna be famous. I bet there were, like, a _ton_ of agents in there, and they’re gonna call, like, all of their... um, people, and—”

“And you’ll be the next Emma Stone,” Max finishes.

“Only if you’ll be the Ryan Gosling to my Emma Stone.” Zoey beams up at him, and his heart flutters up his throat and somewhere into the sky like a lost balloon. She sighs wistfully as they walk farther away from the busier end of the street. “I love this.”

Max looks down at her. Everything else is painted in blurry watercolors, but she’s a crystal-clear photograph. “You love what?”

 _“This,”_ Zoey emphasizes, waving her hand from him to her. “You. I mean, I love being with you.”

Max nods tightly. That is the exact kind of response he would expect from her. His throat hurts, but he isn’t sure whether to blame it on belting out _La La Land_ or the acidic tears dripping the wrong way behind his eyes.

He thinks of when she sang in Joan’s office, when it seemed like she sang to nobody else in the world but him. He wanted to feel that feeling again tonight, shoot it up like a drug, but he wasn’t quite able to achieve it with karaoke. He knows it’s wrong to be unable to appreciate the time he spends with Zoey as just her friend, but he’s always left wanting _more,_ and it’s hellish.

They muddle along for some time, staring dazedly at storefronts and hotels and the people around them. Max feels like they’re in a car on the highway and they missed their exit a while back, so now they’re driving until all the town names on the signs are unfamiliar. But Max isn’t too panicked, because there’s nobody he would rather be lost with than the girl currently humming and leaning heavily into him.

“Huh,” Zoey says suddenly, coming to a stop. Puzzled, Max freezes as well and follows her gaze to see what’s caught her attention. 

“‘The Little Vegas Chapel,’” he reads the sign on the petite building tucked between larger and flashier facades. “What is it, Zo?”

He glances back at her and finds her sniffling. Not full-on crying, but close to it. In an instant Max takes her shoulders and crouches down in front of her, tilting her chin up. “Hey, hey, what’s the matter?”

“I’m never gonna find anybody,” she mumbles, wiping under her eyes and leaving a trail of eyeliner along her fingers. “I’m gonna be alone forever because every— _hic—_ every relationship I get into ends badly.”

“That’s... that’s not true,” Max says, trying to think clearly, but the effort is futile. They’re both too far gone.

 _“Yes,_ it is,” Zoey hiccups. “R- remember Skylar?”

“Well, he was a special brand of asshole.”

“Jane?”

“She was a psycho who— who took advantage of you,” Max scrambles to make her feel better. “That wasn’t your fault.”

Zoey turns her nose up at the comforting attempts, however. “And what about _Brad,_ huh? What’s your excuse for him?”

“His name was Brad, Zo,” Max responds, stifling a laugh. “That means, like, automatic douchebag.”

Zoey stomps her foot and turns her shoulder towards him, crossing her arms. “I’m _tired,_ M- Max... Max... hmm...”

Max furrows his brow. “That’s my name, you got it right the first time.”

“No, I need a good nickname! I wanna be funny.” Zoey purses her lips in thought, and Max can _almost_ see the gears trying to turn in her head, but alcohol has rusted them over for the night. Miraculously, his brain is able to swoop in to the rescue, likely the final effort it will make tonight.

“How about... Maxi Pad?” he suggests. He’s already fooling himself by thinking her lingering stares on him and the way she’s loosely linking her arm with his actually mean something, so what’s another self-deprecating insult?

Zoey’s face lights up, cheeks once again turning ruddy with good humor. She doubles over cackling, holding onto his arm so she doesn’t topple to the sidewalk. _“Yes!”_ she barks. “Yes, yes, that’s perfect. N- not as good as something Mo would think up, but... I like it, Maxi Pad.”

“Well, Maxi Pad the Fool is pleased to have tickled your funny bone, Princess,” Max says, giving an exaggerated bow not unlike the one they did after karaoke.

Out of nowhere Zoey hugs him, but then again most of her actions tonight are coming out of nowhere, so Max is learning to expect the unexpected from her. Even with that in mind, though, what she says next comes hurtling out of an alternate dimension.

“My mom always— _hic—_ always says to marry the one who makes you laugh,” Zoey giggles into his wrinkled dress shirt. “And you make me laugh, Max. So...” She pulls back but doesn’t sever their contact, and the newly solemn expression painted onto her face leaves Max teetering on the edge of a cliff.

“Zo?” he whispers, throat trembling around the one very meaningful syllable.

“It’s only logical, isn’t it?” Zoey mutters. Now she’s pacing, talking to herself the way she does when she’s trying to debug a particularly stubborn glitchy program. He’s witnessed this behavior numerous times at work. But this time she deposits herself right back in his arms and announces confidently, “Let’s get married.”

There’s nothing in his mouth to choke on, but Max coughs anyway, pounding his chest for a few seconds. After a minute he manages to rasp out a feeble _“What?”_

“Let’s do it,” Zoey repeats, unwavering. “I’m tired of falling in love with crappy people. _You’re_ not crappy, Max. You’re a nice guy. I should marry somebody nice.”

“Zoey, I- I don’t know if this is a good idea...” But the rest of the sentence dies on his tongue. Max can’t deny the thrill this is giving him. Besides, the rest of his better judgment trickled away with that last tequila shot, so now there’s nothing to go against here.

“It’s not a good idea,” she professes. “It’s a _great_ idea.”

Max looks back and forth from her to the chapel. “O- okay,” he says, starting to laugh. “Let’s do it.”

Zoey stands on her tiptoes, flashing those doe eyes of hers, just one feature of many he knows results in her getting hit on by others. But maybe, finally, those eyes could be for him only. “You’ll have me?” she murmurs.

“Only if you’ll have me, Emma Stone,” he answers.

“Of _course_ I will have you, Ryan Gosling,” she says. “Through— through thin and thick, or whatever they say.” And with that, against their nonexistent better judgment, they walk inside the chapel right as Thursday night becomes Friday morning. They’re declared married while wearing a scuffed-up suit and a blue dress with a torn sleeve, and when they stumble back into his hotel room soon after (delivered to the Marriott’s front entrance by a highly disgruntled, but unfazed, Lyft driver), they’re both asleep the instant they collapse onto the bed.

* * *

_Now_

The mirror is telling Zoey she looks fine, but she can’t help disagreeing. She dragged herself out of bed today at seven o’clock for work, because calling in sick two days in a row would bring up too many prying questions. And anyway, she _is_ a supervisor, so she can’t start slacking on the job now of all times.

But studying herself in the mirror is taking any confidence she miraculously woke up with and flushing it down the drain. This is eerily similar to getting ready the day after she read over her peer reviews, particularly the one that criticized her unwavering choice to wear sweaters over collared shirts. Only today, it’s ten times worse, because there is another fashion choice she’s debating— this damn ring.

Zoey holds up her left hand, palm facing inward toward her chest, and slides the silver band from Vegas onto the appropriate finger. She’d taken the time to examine it closely, and it seems to be genuine sterling, so kudos to drunk Zoey for her good taste. But when she checked over her debit _and_ credit card history, she couldn’t find a trace of any big jewelry purchase in Las Vegas, so that means _Max_ must’ve coughed up the dough for their rings, and that only makes her feel worse about this whole thing. (Especially considering the decent pay bump she got with her promotion.)

Anyway, she seriously doesn’t know whether to wear it or not. Today will be the first time she sees Max since leaving the airport (not counting their accidental-on-purpose FaceTime), which means it’s also the first time she’s had to actually think about wearing the ring or not. It shouldn’t matter, she knows that— after all, they’re planning to dissolve this mistaken union, key word _mistaken._ So wearing the ring shouldn’t be an option, shouldn’t even make sense.

So she starts to take it off for the umpteenth time this morning, but something stops her, and she knows all too well that something is _feelings._ Friendship bracelets exist, and friendship _rings_ aren’t a thing, but maybe she and Max can be the first ones to make it a thing? Because she does like him. Really, really like him. Enough to wear a ring that reminds her of their drunken mistake because at the same time it reminds her of _him._ That doesn’t have to mean anything more than _just friends._ But most of all, she just doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Zoey is well aware she’s overthinking this, but she’s always had an expertise in overthinking. With an exasperated sigh, she decides to move the ring to the fourth finger on her right hand instead, nestling it against her knuckle and giving it an absentminded squeeze. Then, with her mind finally made up, she sets off to SPRQ Point.

The elevator ride up is undisturbed, and she actually spends the first couple hours getting real solid work done. Tobin and a couple other brogrammers come up to her for advice on coordinating two tricky pieces of JavaScript, and she has to suppress a smile at the fact her male coworkers are finally starting to respect her. She’s called to Joan’s office once to give a progress report on the Chirp, then a second time to recite the same thing in Leif’s presence because “I can’t trust anyone but my own ears, Zoey,” and what bothers her more than his arrogance is the fact that Joan doesn’t even give him half a glare for asserting his status as alpha of this project.

Meanwhile Max is, of course, in her line of sight at his desk, but he remains diligent and doesn’t offer her more than a breezy “Hey” when she runs into him by the restrooms. It leaves her feeling both relieved and irritated, because why is he acting so calm? Zoey has no right to know what’s going on inside someone else’s head, but this power has granted her that ability, so her desperation for a new heart song from him isn’t that terrible, is it? If she’s so damn stressed, Zoey selfishly thinks that he should be too, at least a little bit.

Later, it’s soon after lunchtime, and Zoey is pushing around the last couple leaves of lettuce in the puddle of dressing at the bottom of her salad container. The SPRQWatch is acting up once again, and she’s hit a roadblock. Clicking her tongue in frustration, Zoey pushes away from her screen and tells Tobin she’s going to take five.

She considers using those five minutes to pace in the restroom and unravel all her pent-up anxiety. It’s a good option, since the ladies’ room is almost always a guaranteed private space in an office that’s ninety-five percent men, but she ends up redirecting her feet towards the meditation room instead. She could stand to light some candles and pretend she actually knows how to meditate based on wikiHow instructions.

As soon as she opens the door and slips inside the dimly-lit space, however, Zoey immediately regrets her decision. Because tucked in the corner, shoes off and knees drawn to his chest, is Simon. Hearing her enter, he opens his eyes and gives her a nod.

“Oh, um, hey,” she mumbles, instinctively backing up towards the door. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just—”

“No, stay, it’s fine. I think there’s room for _maybe_ one more person,” Simon chuckles, motioning to the empty space around them. He straightens out his legs on the yoga mat and tilts his head at her. Zoey has been told before that she received the best genes from both her parents, but man, Simon _really_ managed to secure the best possible chromosomes. Just seeing his dark eyes steady on her, burning like hot amber coals in the candlelight, makes something stir in her core. 

With an inaudible gulp, Zoey plunks down on a mat on the opposite side of the room. She takes her time toeing off her shoes and propping a pillow against the wall before leaning back on it. The whole time she can feel Simon gazing at her, unabashed in the flickering golden privacy found only in this room. “So...” she speaks softly. If they’re going to break their avoidance decree, she might as well go all in. “How have you been?”

“Could be better,” Simon admits with a breathy exhale. “Actually, I really would spend the entire day in here if I could. It’s more relaxing than my own house.”

Zoey chews on her lip. “Is it?”

“Yeah, because, um... well, I dunno if I should tell you this, but...”

Interest piqued, Zoey leans forward intently. “What?”

“I guess you’d find out eventually, so... Jessica called the engagement off,” he says. “For reasons I’m sure you can imagine.”

Guilt scrapes at Zoey’s stomach like sharpened claws. “Oh my god, Simon, I’m... I’m really sorry, I didn’t— I never meant—”

“Well, I’m the one who showed up at your place unannounced _and_ late at night, then didn’t fess up to it until I was confronted. I could’ve handled all of that... y’know, being around _you..._ I could’ve handled that a lot better, but I didn’t.”

Zoey stares at her patterned socks, fingertips fizzing where they’re gripping her shins. For a short while it felt like she and Simon were finally living on separate planes of existence, running on ideally safe parallel lines that wouldn’t dare to inappropriately intersect. But now, here they are again, both of their lives crashing and burning in strangely similar ways at the same time. Once more, they’ve become perpendicular, and Zoey isn’t sure what to think of that.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “Really.” She thinks about how they’ve bonded over their dads, she thinks about the perfectly good treats she dumped in the trash upon finding out he was engaged, she thinks about the care basket she got for him, she thinks about that _very_ hot solo he sang to her in her apartment, she thinks about that fiery disaster of an engagement party, she thinks about Max— wait. Max doesn’t belong here. Max is... different. Max is... 

Zoey stops and twists the ring around her finger. Ever since she got her power, her relationship with Max has become just as complicated as her rapidly-developing, constantly-changing one with Simon. It’s overwhelming to think about, and she can’t understand why her mind is dragging Max into the equation. Or is it that she doesn’t _want_ to understand?

“I’ll be fine,” Simon says. “In all honesty, I think it’s for the best. I was thinking a lot about it, and I realized something. If I couldn’t confide in her about my dad, then were we ever as close as I thought? I don’t think our relationship was strong enough for marriage.”

“Yeah, well...” Zoey loops a curl of hair around her finger. “I guess you should be pretty close to someone if you’re gonna marry them.” The words seize her throat on their way up, but she’s able to get through them stutter-free.

Suddenly a chime sounds from her back pocket, and stupidly Zoey realizes she brought her phone in here with her by accident.

“Hey, this is a phone-free zone,” Simon teases as she goes to fish it out.

 _Yeah, and this is also supposed to be a relaxation zone, but you’re too sexy for anyone to be relaxed around you, least of all myself._ Aloud, though, Zoey just winces and apologizes again. Then she reads the text notification on the screen, and her stomach drops.

“What’s up?” Simon asks.

“Oh, uh...” Zoey figures there’s no point in lying. “Max is looking for me.”

“Ah.” Simon gives a curt nod, then to her surprise he starts to get up and retie his shoes. “I’ll escort you out. I should be getting back out there someday soon. The rations in this bunker aren’t that plentiful, anyway.”

Zoey’s chest is too tight for much more than a slight chuckle. Still, she allows herself to walk close to him as they make their way to the door. It’s not at all a long walk, obviously, but it’s still shattering every law they’d reluctantly set to dictate their friendship.

Then all of a sudden, Simon gives her a strange look. “Uh... what was that, Zoey?” he asks.

“What was what?” she returns, risking a look up at his finely-carved face. She searches it but finds only curiosity written between the lines in his forehead and brow.

“You just...” Simon trails off and shakes his head. “Never mind.” But he continues gazing at her, the subject verbally abandoned but mentally still very much present. His eyes drift down to her lips, and when he leans down to capture them Zoey doesn’t pull away— at first.

She breaks the kiss after a few thudding heartbeats pass. “I- I have to find Max,” she mutters, mouth dry.

Simon narrows his eyes and the next instant, a funky beat pours in, enclosing them inside a mini disco club in what is normally the quietest room in the office. While Zoey stares at him, pressing fingers to her still-tingling lips, Simon starts clapping to the beat and moonwalking away from her.

_Baby, I don’t want to spend my life on trial_

_For something that I did not do_

_And maybe if you stopped and looked around some time_

_I wouldn’t pass right by you_

_Maybe it’s because you are so insecure_

_Maybe you plain don’t care_

_Maybe it’s the chase that really gets me off_

_I fall so when it’s just not there_

_Burn another bridge, break another heart_

_Try again, it will only fall apart_

Now he approaches her again with a smoldering look in those eyes, and Zoey’s heart slams in her chest. He continues alternating between clapping and snapping his fingers.

_Infatuation_

_Not seeing the rest of you is getting the best of me_

_It’s such a shame that you shot me down_

_It would have been nice to have been around_

_I’m touching your skin_

_If it’s only a fantasy, then why is it killing me?_

_I guess this must be infatuation_

_I want it, I want it, I want it_

Simon keeps repeating how much he wants it, and Zoey wishes for an escape hatch to open up beneath her because _god_ is this tempting. She’s pressed back against the frosted glass wall while his lips graze her neck. The lyrics he utters are like burning hickeys pressed into her skin.

_I’m so attracted to you_

_The feeling’s mutual too_

_And I get scared the moment you leave_

_Get so hot I forget to breathe, yeah_

Then the song cuts off, but unlike most other heart songs, reality doesn’t whisk them back into a less compromising position. She’s still in his arms, their chests heaving together, the coolness of the glass wall kissing her back where her shirt has ridden up. And now, for the first time since they met, this isn’t technically _wrong—_ he’s single now (but only just). She simultaneously is and isn’t single (but the rings don’t mean anything if the feelings aren’t there, right? And they aren’t there. Really.) But still, somebody else is prodding at her mind, and Zoey can’t let him go.

“I- I should leave,” she blurts out, tripping over the words. She ducks out of his grasp and makes her escape, not missing the fact that he doesn’t chase after her.


	5. hands clean (reprise)/talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At work, Zoey hears more heart songs and tries her utmost to work out others' problems as well as her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully i'll redeem myself with this chapter, because i know not everyone was the biggest fan of the simon scene last time around! anyway, i have this annoying habit where i plan out ahead of time which heart songs are going to appear in each chapter, but then when i'm actually writing the chapter i end up choosing a completely different song. that happened again this time, and though this chapter's title is way too similar to chapter 2's, i promise this one is a lot different! zoey finally seems to be succumbing to her ~feelings~, despite what she says on the outside.
> 
> as always, your comments and kudos are much appreciated! love you guys <3
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "hands clean" by alanis morissette (again) and "talk" by khalid. there's also a reference to "unbelievable" by emf.

_That was bad. That was so, so, so bad._ A thousand different thoughts pound at Zoey’s brain, tiny mallets each producing their own resounding shameful _thunk_ against her skull. 

As she walks briskly away from whatever the hell just happened, she mulls over the lyrics in Simon’s heart song. Whenever she gets a chance, she tries to scribble down any snippets she remembers after hearing a heart song. But this time, it’s like her mind has banished it immediately from existence in Zoeyland. She can’t make sense of it. Only one line decides to stick with her, and it’s not one she particularly likes: _Maybe it’s because you are so insecure._ She’s well aware not every part of a heart song can literally apply to the life of the person who presents it to her, but still... she already knows she’s insecure, so why did Simon have to be so harsh as to remind her of that fact?

She’s moving so fast, she doesn’t see Max at the top of the benches working on his tablet. He sees her though, and before she’s even sat back down at her desk, he is standing in front of her.

“Hey,” Max says, the same exact thing he said to her a few hours ago, and the only thing he’s said to her at all today.

A few butterflies take up residence in Zoey’s stomach when she meets his eyes. Typical Max, standing here grinning broadly in that really nice black shirt with the crisp collar, acting like their lives haven’t totally turned upside down. She swallows hard and puts some focus into reapplying her chapstick, since it was somehow, um, mysteriously wiped off recently. “Hey,” she answers after a moment, smacking her lips. She takes her time slowly putting the chapstick back in her desk drawer before finally resuming eye contact. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“I was just wondering if you had any pictures of baby Zach to share. I’ve been dying to see his cute chubby baby face.”

Zoey blinks. _Oh._ Why was she expecting literally anything else besides that? Max, of course, knows her too well and reads between her lines instantly.

“Sorry, I— you didn’t think that, um—”

“No, it’s... fine,” Zoey replies hesitantly. “We can talk about that... other stuff in a minute.” Forcing a smile, she stands up and goes around her desk to stand beside him, swiping to open up a photo album on her phone. She only has a few photos from yesterday, and most of them were excitedly snapped by her mom when it was Zoey’s turn to hold her nephew. She’s about halfway through the pictures when Max stops her.

“Wait,” he murmurs, giving her hand a tap lighter than a feather. Zoey freezes at the contact, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Max leans closer, close enough for his scent to wrap around her like a scarf. He wears a nice cologne, light enough to not be overpowering but just strong enough to clearly be there. He smells like the spearmint gum she knows he keeps in his desk, and he smells like her favorite aisle in the electronics store, like warmed-up appliances and hot dust.

Now she tears her gaze away from his face to see what picture he’s so interested in. It’s one of the many Maggie took of Zoey; she’s perched on one of the hard plastic chairs in the hospital room, shoulders awkwardly hunched to accommodate the tiny bundle in her arms. The baby weighed less than six pounds, but somehow he still was heavier than Zoey expected him to be when he was given to her. She’d been so terrified of dropping him on his head or something awful, providing a new reason for David and Emily to resent her. But this picture is a serene little snapshot— the Zoey on the screen looks impossibly relaxed, brow slanted forward slightly as she holds out an index finger for Zach to grasp with his ridiculously small fist. Her hair is messily brushed behind one ear to keep it out of the baby’s face, but some is still tumbling past her shoulder, and Zoey can’t get over the way Max is smiling at this picture. He goes so far as taking the phone from her hands and zooming in on the shot, turning the device back towards her with the screen now filled with only her face and the baby in her lap.

“What?” She huffs out a laugh, wondering what there could possibly be to admire so much. “That picture looks exactly like the twenty other ones my mom took in a span of five seconds.”

“You—” Max stops himself, Adam’s apple visibly bobbing as he shoves the phone back into her grasp. “You look... really great there, Zo.”

She ducks her head, heart throbbing behind her ribs. “Thanks.”

“You’re gonna be an amazing aunt, you know,” he tells her seriously.

“Yeah, I hope so.” Zoey chuckles again, but laughing does nothing to take down the butterflies. “And you can be his, um... favorite and only uncle.” As soon as she says it, a wave of nerves crashes onto the already flooded beach in her mind. She scrambles to explain. “I- I mean— not because we’re, you know—”

Max blushes, but he gives her a playful push in the arm. “Don’t worry. My brother’s kids already love me, so I’m very qualified for the job. We can be the fun ones who secretly take him out for ice cream whenever he pisses his parents off. I promise, he will _love_ us.” When the words leave his mouth, something shifts in the air between them. Zoey retreats a little, feeling some eyes on them— seriously, _curse_ this open floor plan office! Why did cubicles have to go out of style?— and that’s when Max’s eyes drop to her hands.

“You’re... still wearing the ring,” he mutters.

Zoey wants to choke and die on her own tongue. _You would deserve it for being so stupid._ “Er... yeah, well,” she gulps. “It looks nice, what can I say?”

“You never wear rings,” he continues almost as if she hadn’t spoken.

She curls her fingers into fists and tucks them under her arms so they can’t be seen. “Yeah, and apparently you don’t, either,” she points out.

Max swings his gaze around them and, evidently deciding they’re too exposed for this conversation, he motions for her to follow him somewhere more private. He leads her to the swinging chairs at the other end of the room, which are luckily empty now. He directs her to sit, and seems to debate sitting or not himself. He paces for a second, then finally drops down in the chair across from her and clumsily scoots closer on the wobbly seat. 

“Look, I... I know this is weird,” he begins.

“Yep,” she cuts in. _“Really_ weird.”

“But, as I’m sure you agree, we need to confront it, so...” Max leans back and swivels back and forth a little, still restless in his skin. Zoey feels much the same, but can’t bring herself to move any other muscle besides her rapidly beating heart, which really can’t seem to catch a break today.

What he says next makes her consider bolting, though. “Is... is a divorce what you want?”

Zoey picks little balls of lint off her sweater. “Yes?” she says. “I mean, _yes._ Because this— this won’t work. I mean, we’re just friends, and friends don’t—”

“Friends don’t get married,” Max finishes for her. 

Something about the way his eyes have narrowed rubs her the wrong way, so Zoey snaps, “It wasn’t my choice to get married, Max! I didn’t ask for this!”

He raises his palms in surrender, and she again takes notice that his ring is sorely missing. Why, _why_ did she wear hers today? It wasn’t supposed to be something she even considered. Of all the things that should be an obvious _nope,_ that was it— and she wore it anyway.

“How do you know that for sure?” Max counters, making her blood sizzle. “Neither of us remember what the hell happened that night,” he continues, lowering his voice until he’s hissing words through gritted teeth. Zoey bristles, gripping the edge of her seat until her knuckles are white, as if she’s on a rollercoaster. _Sure feels like it._

“So it could’ve been you who encouraged it,” she returns.

“Yes, it could’ve. But we’ll probably never know,” he says. “So now we just need to... move forward to the future. And that means— that means figuring this out. Let’s make it as quick and painless as possible, and try to stay sane.”

“Too late for that,” she grumbles, slouching back and refusing to look at him. “I’ve clearly already lost my mind.”

Max frowns at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not about you,” Zoey growls. “Not everything is about you, Maxwell.”

 _“Yeah,_ I get that, Zoey!” His raised voice attracts the unwanted attention they’ve already tried to escape. She must look stricken, because he drops the volume immediately and tries to fold his hands together in a dignified manner. “Okay, okay, just... how about I speak to a lawyer and start to work out how this is gonna go. And...” Max trails off, voice crumbling slightly on that one word. 

Now it’s her turn to complete his sentence. “... we’ll, uh, get this show on the road. Right?”

Max nods so quickly he looks like a bobblehead. Soon after, he mumbles something about needing to help Tobin with a project Zoey is pretty sure they finished months ago, but she doesn’t argue. Instead she lets him leave her swinging silently on the chair, alone with her thoughts. (Which is _never_ a good thing.)

* * *

Zoey has only been back at her desk for ten minutes when she hears the beginnings of a familiar-sounding song. She swears she knows this gentle guitar strumming from sometime recently, and it’s that curiosity that reels her in. She spins around to pinpoint where the tune is coming from, and finds Joan slumped in her chair in her office, staring blankly at the wall. 

_Ooh, this could get messy but_

_Ooh, you don’t seem to mind_

_Ooh, don’t go telling everybody_

_And overlook this supposed crime_

Zoey has _definitely_ heard those lyrics before. But this time Joan is singing at a far slower pace, keeping her words at such a low volume that they’re nothing more than a hum. Keeping in mind people might still be able to see _her_ movements outside of her mind, Zoey casually stands and takes her time inching closer to the closest glass wall of Joan’s office.

_We’ll fast forward to a few years later_

_And no one knows except the both of us_

_I’ve more than honored your request for silence_

_And you’ve washed your hands clean of this_

Zoey pauses, watching Joan get up and circle around her desk. Some of Zoey’s coworkers who happen to be passing by her office abruptly drop whatever they’re holding and break into a slow, undulating dance; they hang their hands and wave their arms as if in slow motion. Joan resumes with her reprised ballad, gazing off at something— or some _one—_ over Zoey’s shoulder.

_What part of our history’s reinvented and under rug swept?_

_What part of your memory is selective and tends to forget?_

_What with this distance it seems so obvious_

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it’s over. Zoey blinks and the random brogrammers are once again holding their papers and tablets and walking past the spot that, in reality, they never actually stopped at. Joan is back in her chair, but her eyes haven’t moved from whatever is so interesting behind Zoey. So she glances back toward the cluster of desks and, just as she thought he might be, there’s Leif, leaning over Tobin’s shoulder and typing something into his keyboard for him. Zoey doesn’t even need to hear whatever he’s saying; his harsh, brittle tone conveys enough impatience to beat down every person in this building. Tobin seems to get fed up and he swats his friend away, leaving Leif to go and brood over by the cereal bar. Even with his rigid posture, there’s a glint in his eyes that Zoey doesn’t like, and it more than makes up for the current lack of a smirk on his face.

It doesn’t take a detective to deduce what happened. Zoey doesn’t hesitate any longer and barges into Joan’s office. It’s safe to say she has befriended her boss, but Joan is still her _boss,_ so Zoey has to put up a false air of confidence in order to set her plan in motion.

“Hey, girl!” she says loudly, way _too_ loudly, in fact, and it reeks of fake assertiveness. (These days Zoey practically forgets who her actual self is, with all the other emotions she’s forcing herself to portray to others.) Despite that, Zoey marches all the way inside and plants her hands on Joan’s desk. “Clear whatever’s on your schedule for tonight, because I am taking. You. Out!”

Joan doesn’t acknowledge her at first, still staring blankly. But then she has a delayed reaction, sitting back and crossing her arms. She offers Zoey a wholly aloof expression, but Zoey sees right through it thanks to the heart song. “Why, may I ask?” Zoey opens her mouth, but Joan holds up a finger to add, “The answer’s no, by the way.”

Zoey knows it’s selfish, but she has too many personal issues wrinkling the fabric of her life to waste any time being passive. So she leans closer and gives Joan a cool stare. “I know about you and Leif,” she says.

Joan’s face drops immediately, her neat facade crumbling like old brick. “Oh,” she mutters. “All of it, or...?”

“All of it,” Zoey confirms. She steps back and falls into one of the weird 3D-puzzle-looking chairs. “Let’s just say there were, um, some moments where you guys were kinda obvious.”

Joan grimaces. “Yeah, well, I convinced myself that I knew what it was— that it was just sex, and I knew exactly what he was doing. And sure enough, he landed a meeting with a few higher-ups in the company, only because I put in a good word for him. Next thing I know, he tells me we can’t continue with our ‘illicit affair,’ and now I’ve cleared my schedule to hang out with another annoyingly cute twenty-something.” She covers her face with her hands and groans. “What has my life become?”

“Oh, great, so you’re coming,” Zoey replies, unfazed by the backhanded compliment. 

“Better than ordering everything off the McDonald’s breakfast menu at one in the morning and pretending the DoorDash guy might have a sliver of interest in me,” Joan says. “Not that I was planning on doing that. So anyway, what do you have in store? Knowing you, it’s something like a murder mystery dinner party or glow bowling.”

“Hey, those are super fun,” Zoey protests, frowning slightly. “But _no,_ that’s not it. We’re gonna go out for a night on the town.”

“On a Tuesday?”

Zoey grins mysteriously at her. “It won’t be exactly what you think.” She stands to go, bracing herself on the back of the chair while she tilts forward to give Joan an exaggerated wink that probably turns out looking more like a cringe. “I’ll send a car to pick you up.”

“You definitely don’t have any kind of authority to send a private driver,” Joan says flatly.

“You betcha I don’t!” Zoey chirps, swinging her arm. “So I’ll meet up with you at the end of the day. See you then!” With one last fluttery wave, she slips out the door and pretends her unintended stumble is an excited skip. When she glances back in the office, all she sees is Joan giving an exhausted shake of her head.

She finds Max sitting back down at his computer with a freshly replenished bowl of Lucky Charms. It’s funny, because he’s always been a bit of a good luck charm to her. The thought soothes her chapped soul, so she decides to go ahead and approach him.

“Heeey,” she says, drawing out the word. “Listen, I- I don’t want things between us to be any more awkward than they have to, so I want to offer you an olive branch.”

Max lifts his brows and puts down his cereal spoon. “Fair enough. What’s up?”

“Wanna come out with me and Joan tonight? She needs some cheering up and I think you could too. Hell, I might also invite Mo while I’m at it.”

“I think both of us need it,” Max admits. “It won’t go too late, though, will it? Not that I care _that_ much, because you _can_ be pretty fun to hang out with, but it _is_ a work night, so...”

“Hey, when am I _not_ fun to hang out with?” Zoey pretends to mope. “Actually, wait, don’t answer that.”

When she calls Mo a few minutes later, he’s full of the attitude that never fails to tickle between Zoey’s ribs exactly when she needs it. “Go out _drinking?_ On a Tuesday night? I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Zow-Wow, but I am _in!”_

“Actually, we won’t be drinking,” Zoey corrects him. “And we’ll be with my boss. And Max.”

“Max? Wait, this isn’t one of those weird trendy divorce parties, is it? I mean, I love trendy, but you’re gonna have to give me more time to plan it for you guys.”

Zoey feels like flames are licking at her cheeks. “Oh my god, _no,_ it’s— it’s not a... _divorce_ party,” she half-yells, half-hisses into the phone. 

“Are you sure? I saw this really cute photoset on Pinterest where they made little coffins to put the wedding rings in, then they threw them in a very aesthetically-pleasing bonfire—”

“Mo,” Zoey whines. “No, I promise, it’s not that. I’ll see you tonight, okay?” They hang up and she tries not to go over to the nearest wall and hit her head on it repeatedly. To resist it, she instead giggles into her sleeve until Max casts her a quizzical glance. Then, just to sate her curiosity, she searches divorce party ideas on Pinterest, because is that _seriously_ a thing? (It is.)

* * *

As the long work day draws to a close, Zoey finally starts to relax. She feels like she’s lived an entire week in one day, and it’s still not over yet. There is one more conversation she needs to have before she can leave, and there’s no use dragging her feet about it. Her friends are endlessly important to her, almost as much as her family is, and she just can’t lose them without putting up a fight first.

And so, while the sun gradually dips behind the city skyline outside, Zoey makes her way over to Simon’s office. From a safe distance partially behind a post, she peers inside and finds him starting to pack up his things to go home. She wonders where _home_ currently is for him. Hopefully a really nice hotel room. _Oh, god. It’s not like we even did anything— it was just an... emotional affair._

Smothering any remaining doubt with a pillow of courage, Zoey steps into his view and tiptoes over to knock on his propped-open door. “Hey...” she says, plastering on a tentative smile. “Can you spare a minute? To talk about... earlier?”

Simon looks at her and indicates nothing about his emotions besides a barely-there grin. “Sure,” he nods, zipping up his computer case. 

“Okay.” Zoey takes a breath and comes all the way inside, not bothering to shut the door behind her because this shouldn’t take long. She purses her lips and weaves her fingers together, standing tall as if she’s about to give a work presentation. “Simon, I... I’m sorry about your engagement, and I’m especially sorry if it ended because of me, ‘cause... I’ve thought about this,” she says, making a fleeting gesture between them, “us, and this is not what I want. We can be friends, of course, but I just can’t see anything beyond that working out.”

He inclines his head, focusing his intense gaze on her shoes. “And you don’t want to waste your time?”

Zoey frowns. “I don’t even _have_ the time to waste. This is... this is not a good time to start a relationship, I mean— you only _just_ ended yours, and I have everything going on here at work _and_ my dad’s health to worry about...” She blinks hard to keep the tears at bay. Now is not the time to cry, and she especially can’t do that in front of Simon. If she’s going to cry in a guy’s arms, this isn’t the guy whose arms she wants to cry in. She can at least admit that much to herself.

“And I’m not the one you want to help you through those things,” Simon says bluntly.

Her tongue feels like heavy, restrictive taffy in her mouth. She bites down on it to prevent saying something she’ll regret. Even if he doesn’t want to be friends, Simon will still be her coworker for the foreseeable future, so she has to salvage this as best as she can. In lieu of words, she nods numbly.

“Fine.” Simon slings his bag over his shoulder and starts to move past her to the door. But to her shock, he halts in the doorway and looks at her one last time. “I have to ask... what is Max supposed to be?”

Zoey blanches. “What do you mean?”

“Who is Max to you? I know you’re friends, but... you two seem _awfully_ close lately. Everyone’s been talking about you two being a...” Simon moves his hands, face screwed up as he tries to come up with the words. “A _thing._ And I guess today I— I wanted to test that.”

“Max is... we’re just friends,” Zoey says, the words barely a whisper. Lately she can’t tell, but it seems like the quieter she says something, the less she hopes it’s really true.

“Right.” Simon runs a hand through his hair, but before going he pauses again. “Just one more thing, Zoey.” He fixes his gaze on her more directly, searching her for something she isn’t sure she wants to give up.

“What?”

Simon sighs. “Next time you serenade me, maybe make it something a little less... I don’t know... tempting.”

Zoey knits her brows together. _“Serenade_ you? What are you talking about?”

“In the meditation room earlier, Zoey, you sang to me,” he tells her. “That song ‘Unbelievable’ from the early 90s? Not the most flattering lyrics, but you...” He throws his arms up and gives a short, dull laugh. “You really can sing, you know.”

With that he takes his leave, but Zoey staggers out of the room after him. “What?” she squeaks. “I have _no_ recollection of that, Simon! What are you—”

But he doesn’t turn around, instead waving her away before picking up his pace.

Zoey is left standing there with her mouth hanging open, unspoken words clinging to her tongue. She shuts her jaw and swallows them back down, shaking her head slowly. Since when has her power ever pulled a reverse move? Unless Simon’s just messing with her in his anger? But that would be an oddly specific situation to fabricate...

At a loss, she shuffles back over to her desk and starts getting her things together. She faintly hears Joan finishing up a phone call in her office, while Mo shoots her a text that he’s in the Lyft now on his way to meet them outside. Zoey is still so deep in her thoughts that she doesn’t notice Max come up to her.

“Hey,” he says gently, making sure not to startle her. “I’m all set.”

“Oh, great,” Zoey mumbles, not looking up as she tries to cram her laptop haphazardly into her bag. “Hey, um, I have a kinda strange question.”

“Lay it on me,” Max says instantly (they both ignore the blushes that flood in at a possible alternative connotation to that phrase).

Zoey lets out a leaden breath and meets his gaze. “Do you know of a song called ‘Unbelievable’? From, like, the early 90s maybe?”

“Oh, yeah, it was pretty popular in its day.” Max smirks at her in disbelief. “You’re telling me you _don’t_ know it?”

“You know me, Max,” Zoey defends herself. “I’m a true crime girl, not a greatest pop hits girl. What, uh, what is that song about?”

Max thinks for a moment, slipping his hands in his pockets. She doesn’t _not_ notice the endearing little scrunch that forms between his brows. “If I remember right, it’s basically about this guy who’s frustrated with a girl, saying she burdens him and is hypocritical and stuff, and that he plans to leave her. Oh, and that she’s, well, unbelievable. But that part’s pretty easy to guess.”

Zoey hums thoughtfully. “Ohh... okay. Interesting.”

“Can I ask why you’re asking?”

She gives a partial shrug and finally manages to zip her overstuffed bag shut. “No reason,” she says lightly. “I, uh... thought I heard it earlier when I was getting my lunch. Anyway, let’s...” Zoey’s mouth goes dry as her eyes land on his hands, which have re-emerged from his pockets to help her slide her arm into her jacket. The silver ring has once again appeared on his fourth finger. The world quits spinning for a hot second.

“You’re...” she sputters. “You’re wearing the ring.”

He chuckles and raises his hand up to her face. “Why not? Since you were, I thought...” His shoulders move up then down like they’re suspended on marionette strings. “Listen, Zo, I know we made a pretty big mistake, and it won’t be super easy to get ourselves out of this pickle, but I don’t want it to destroy our friendship, so...” He grins tightly and gives her arm an affectionate squeeze. “These can be our friendship rings. What do you say?”

In response, she opens her desk drawer and retrieves the ring she’d thrown in there earlier out of humiliation. Now she slides it back on and flashes it at him with a snort. “I say... friends for life?”

Max brings her into a fist bump. “Friends for life,” he affirms. Still, though, something flashes in his eyes. Zoey pretends not to see it, just as she’s pretended to not know his true feelings for what feels like _ages_ now. But of course the world wants to spite her as soon as she’s fixed things for the day, because right then Max breaks into song. He leaps up onto her desk and spreads his arms wide, exercising all the capacity in his lungs.

_Can we just talk? Can we just talk?_

_Talk about where we’re goin’_

_Before we get lost, lend me your thoughts_

_Can’t get what we want without knowin’_

He bends down and before Zoey can rebuff him, he lifts her up onto the desk as well. “Oh!” she yelps. “You are... _strong.” Makes sense... considering what it looks like under his shirt._ She banishes the thought, and lets him spin her rather gracefully for the cramped standing room they have.

_I’ve never felt like this before_

_I apologize if I’m movin’ too far_

_Can we just talk? Can we just talk?_

_Figure out where we’re goin’_

The invisible synthesizer hums in her blood, and when it’s combined with Max’s talented vocals, the effect is increased tenfold. Zoey slips right into the flow of the song, following Max’s lead when he jumps back to the floor and twirls her right on down with him. The few remaining brogrammers who in real life were headed toward the elevator are now Max’s backup dancers, jerking robotically to the electronic beat.

_Yeah, started off right_

_I can see it in your eyes_

_I can tell that you’re wantin’ more_

_What’s been on your mind?_

_There’s no reason we should hide_

_Tell me somethin’ I ain’t heard before_

Zoey sighs, knowing he’s got her good here. He pulls her along into a modern twist on the tango, and breathlessly she throws in her input despite this suave and cocky in-her-head Max not being able to hear it: “So when you sang to me in Vegas, we were talking too much, but now all you want to to do is talk?”

Before launching into the chorus one last time, Max tilts her close to the ground before sweeping her back up. He sends her sailing toward the backup dancers, who push her into a pirouette back into Max’s arms. He tucks hair behind her ears and intones,

_Oh, I’ve been dreamin’ ‘bout it_

_And it’s you I’m on_

_So stop thinkin’ ‘bout it_

_Can we just talk?_

The moment is ended by Joan of all people, who announces her arrival with a giant sigh and slam of her office door. She walks briskly over to them and jerks her head over at the elevator. “Alright, let’s get this night started before I can back myself out of it.”

Zoey shakes her head vigorously, trying to snap herself out of the enticing illusion her power just sprung on her. The brogrammers who had been humming background music mere seconds ago are now boredly waiting by the elevator, and Max has reverted to his position by her desk. From the way he’s tipping his head to the side, she can tell he has a few questions perched on his tongue. _Oh, great. Did I accidentally speak aloud that time? Or did I serenade him while he was serenading me?_

Joan makes an impatient grunt and appears to be seconds away from physically dragging Max and Zoey out of the room with her. “Okay, okay, we’re coming,” Zoey says, taking Max’s arm (and doing what she does best— pretending she _doesn’t_ feel the muscular bulk under her fingers).

“So what are we doing tonight, anyway?” Joan asks as they board the elevator. “Drinking, I hope.”

“Nope!” Zoey replies. “We’re doing something even better than that.”

Joan studies her with a hint of trepidation. “And what’s that?”

“Well, you said the other day you’ve never been to a Target, so... we’re going on a little shopping spree,” Zoey explains.

Max stifles a laugh behind one hand at the expression on Joan’s face. “It’s a shopping spree for normal, not-insanely-rich people,” he points out. “For you, it’ll be like a drop in the bucket.”

“Yeah!” Zoey says. “And if worst comes to worst, you can shelter at the Starbucks up front.” Satisfied with her plan for tonight’s events, Zoey then turns to Max and flashes him her brightest smile. “By the way, Max, you think you could snag a reservation for us at Handpicked? I think we should... um, _talk.”_


	6. if it makes you happy/be ok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie seems to know more than Zoey thought; later, Max is sung to once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have nitpicked and nitpicked at this chapter for what feels like days even though it's only been hours. i'm officially giving in and just posting it, because i'm so ready to move on to the next part of this story. thanks for bearing with me even when my writing is more wordy or choppy than i would like! you guys are seriously the best <3 (also, what about last night's episode, huh? what a mess!)
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "if it makes you happy" by sheryl crow and "be ok" by ingrid michaelson.

When she’s told David and Emily can’t make it to family game night, Zoey doesn’t blame them one bit. Though she has yet to understand what it’s like having a new baby, she knows that long, sleepless nights are just the beginning of it.

What she doesn’t expect, however, is how Maggie reacts when she opens the door to let Zoey in. “Oh!” she says, smiling at the bottle of wine Zoey holds up. Her tone makes it seem like she was expecting anyone but her own daughter to show up to _family_ game night. 

Zoey frowns. “Oh?” She looks down at herself to see if she might’ve buttoned up her sweater unevenly or something.

“No, no, honey, I’m happy you’re here,” Maggie is quick to clue her in. One arm slips behind Zoey’s back to guide her inside while the other gratefully takes the wine. “I just thought you were bringing Max along tonight.”

Zoey stumbles while crossing over the threshold. “Uh, what? What... gave you that impression?”

Maggie only shrugs, and Zoey knows her mother too well to see it as anything except innocent. She leads her past the living room into the kitchen, throwing one surprising word after another over her shoulder. Zoey has no choice but to listen, pick up the words as they land at her feet, and juggle them helplessly.

“Well, he and I talked on the phone for a little while a few nights ago,” her mom informs her, setting the wine on the island and rummaging through a drawer for a corkscrew. “And I told him about our new tradition Howie started up, and when I asked if he would want to join us for the next one he said he’d love to.”

Any immediate response Zoey has to  _ that  _ catches in her throat. She plucks a square of cheddar from the plate on the counter and slides it onto a Triscuit. She stares at the cracker trembling between her thumb and index finger, and suddenly a brief conversation she had with her mom a few days ago returns to her in full force. The phone call had arrived in between a coffee run and a quick stop at her apartment because she forgot her work laptop at home. She  _ thinks _ it was the same information Maggie relayed again to her just now, to which Zoey had hurriedly muttered the phrase,  _ “Sure, I’ll invite him!”  _ Then, after she hung up but before she was able to get back to SPRQ Point, she’d been bombarded by an energetic rendition of “Here Comes the Sun” when she passed a street jammed with traffic and people decided to get out and dance on the roofs of their cars. It  _ had  _ been the first sunny day after a weeklong stretch of rain, but  _ still,  _ Zoey was more annoyed than entertained. And, unknown to her at the time, the performance ended up completely clearing from her mind any reminder to invite Max.

“Er... well,” she mumbles, unable to tell Maggie the actual reason she forgot. “I guess that slipped my mind. Oops?” Zoey chooses not to question why it had to be  _ her  _ who invited Max, when her mom could have just as easily told him herself. Doing that might incite Maggie to bring up certain things Zoey absolutely does not want to confront just yet. Or maybe ever.

“Don’t sweat it, dear,” Maggie assures her. “I know you have a lot going on.”

Zoey shoves the cracker and cheese into her mouth.  _ You don’t say.  _

Once Maggie manages to wrangle the cork out of the bottle, she pours wine into four glasses; Zoey then helps her carry those and the snack plate into the living room. The moment of quiet allows ample time for Zoey’s thoughts to wander to such dangerous places as  _ Why is Mom suddenly so obsessed with Max?  _ Is it just that she never noticed it before? Max  _ is  _ her best friend, and has been for going on five years now, but it doesn’t seem like Maggie has ever actively (or rather,  _ over- _ actively) encouraged him to take part in little family get-togethers until now. When did  _ “Max is such a sweetie”  _ turn into  _ “Max is a part of the family”?  _

To put her mind off that development, Zoey instead focuses her attention on Mitch and Howie as she enters the living room. The Clarkes were never a huge board game family, instead spending their together time out on the boat or doing other outdoorsy things that now make Zoey look back and shudder (she has a distinct memory of a camping trip when she was thirteen where she woke up in the middle of the night covered head-to-toe in mosquito bites, because somehow nobody noticed that David “accidentally” switched one of the bug sprays with a can of cooking spray when packing). But since he was hired, one of Howie’s several great ideas was to start a weekly night dedicated to nothing but board games. It ranks up there with his hiding-spinach-in-chocolate-milkshakes idea, and now Zoey has a happier reason to frequent her parents’ house besides checking in on her dad and making sure he hasn’t taken a turn for the worse.

Especially since the doctor told them the drugs are no longer slowing the disease’s progression, Zoey and Maggie need all the cheer they can get around Mitch. Still, too often Zoey lets herself slip into a devastated stupor in front of her father, something that she tries to hide but most of the time just  _ can’t.  _ He’s still the only person in her life besides Mo who knows about her power (though that is soon to change), and it kills her that she can’t discuss it with him. He  _ knows,  _ and he  _ understands,  _ and most of all he  _ cares,  _ but words on a computer screen just aren’t the same as verbalizing that. And every time Zoey looks into his eyes and spots a familiar glimmer of the man she grew up knowing and loving, it reminds her even more that he’s a clock, ticking onward and onward until one day the battery runs out.

_ No. No crying tonight,  _ she scolds herself. So instead Zoey shifts her mind back to the sight of Mitch and Howie sitting beside each other on the couch. Her dad’s caregiver leans close and squints to read whatever joke Mitch must’ve put on the screen, because right after Howie bursts into guffaws.

“Looks like we’ve stumbled into a double date situation,” Zoey teases, giving her mom a playful elbow in the side as they set down the food and drinks on the coffee table.

Maggie catches on with a smirk and plants her hands on her hips. “Do you two need some privacy?” she asks, eyes flashing back and forth between the men on the sofa.

“You think you two are clever, huh?” Howie snorts, picking up one of the wines and giving the riesling an exaggerated snobbish swirl in the glass. There’s an indignant-sounding  _ buzz,  _ then he reads off of Mitch’s screen and huffs out another laugh. “He’s not impressed either, ladies. You’ll have to try harder.”

Zoey sighs, dragging one of the dining room chairs up to the Monopoly board Howie laid out on the coffee table. “That’s what they keep telling me at every stand-up routine I do,” she quips. “But I’m not giving up yet.”

* * *

The subject of Max doesn’t come up again until the end of the night, when Maggie and Zoey are cleaning up in the kitchen while Howie helps Mitch get ready for bed. Maggie is washing dishes while Zoey dries, and they’re only on dish number two when her mom casually hums, “So next time you’ll invite Max, right? I really do think he would have a great time.”

At this point, Zoey has enough wine in her system to brave a venture into this Wild West of a topic. “What is it about Max, Mom? Why do you have this, like, fantasy that he and I are attached at the hip? Because we’re not.”

Maggie turns the faucet off and says nothing, only gesturing at the ring on Zoey’s hand.

Zoey slides a clean glass back into the cabinet and decides to play dumb. “What?”

“That ring is new,” Maggie points out. “And it’s not either of the ones I gave you, so don’t pretend it is.”

Zoey plays with a corner of the dish towel and eyes her nervously. “Okay, what do you know?”

“On our phone call,” Maggie says, clearly pleased to be settled into this topic as she flips the water back on, “Max also mentioned you two went out and bought ‘friendship rings’ when you were in Vegas.”

_ Of course he did.  _ “Yeah,” Zoey agrees. “We did. It was just a silly fun thing, and we were a  _ tiiiiny  _ bit tipsy, so—”

“Zoey, listen to me. I don’t want you to feel like you have to  _ hide  _ anything from me, at least not for your father’s sake. You know how much he adores Max, as do I. I don’t know if this is a promise ring situation or what, but we would be overjoyed if you two are da—”

“Mom,  _ please,”  _ Zoey whimpers, slamming the dish towel onto the counter as loudly as a dish towel  _ can  _ be slammed, which isn’t loud at all; it ends up being more of a prissy  _ smack  _ against the granite. “Max and I are  _ just friends.  _ I know how much you guys like him, and I like him too, but I gotta say I  _ really  _ don’t appreciate him having all these long phone conversations with my mother behind my back. It’s— it’s like you two are hiding gossip from me, like we’ve reverted back to middle school or something.”

Maggie frowns earnestly at her. “I’m sorry, Zobug. I promise we’re not gossiping or anything like that, not at all. I’m just... having a friendly chat with a close family friend. I strongly doubt I know anything you wouldn’t want me to know.”

Zoey can appreciate her mom trying to soothe her worries, but this discussion has already thrown her emotions for a loop, and the alcohol muddling her brain this time around isn’t helping one bit. The broken sob that tears up her throat surprises even her. In an effort to muffle it from any curious ears upstairs, she leans down against the island and presses her forehead onto her clasped hands.

Maggie is at her side in an instant, one hand sweeping Zoey’s hair back from her face and the other giving slow, firm strokes down her daughter’s back. “Hey, hey,” Maggie murmurs. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Zoey lies instinctively, but knowing that answer won’t suffice for the more stubbornly affectionate people in her life, she stands up and sniffles, “I just... I’m  _ overwhelmed,  _ Mom, and I know you are too, we  _ all  _ are... I’ve just been thinking lately, with the new baby and everything... I know the reality i- is that Dad won’t get to see  _ me  _ experience any of the milestones he’s been able to witness Dave experience. He won’t walk me down the aisle, he won’t see me rise to work on the top floor of SPRQ Point, he won’t meet my kids. And knowing that  _ kills  _ me. I hate to be jealous, and I didn’t  _ want  _ to find a way to be all selfish and make this about me, but...” Any further words evade her, so she lets herself succumb to a fresh wave of frustrated sniffles. And to think she’d already cried her eyes out enough— now here she is, once again getting sucked into the riptide.

“It’s not fair, honey, it’s not,” Maggie says, not slowing her gentle strokes for a moment. “I’ve thought about that too, a whole lot. But think about it— that’s why you spend all the time you can with him now, so he can remember you as you are, young and vibrant and just getting started on a long, wonderful life. And that’s what you’ve been doing! You probably hold a world record in Adult Daughter Willingly Visiting Her Parents Multiple Times A Week. You have been  _ so  _ great to him, Zoey, and because of that he  _ knows  _ what great things are in store for you. You know he wishes he could be there for those things, but he’ll only be there in spirit. And you  _ know  _ he definitely will be. I’m sure he’ll haunt this house until the day I go.” Maggie breaks off into an unsteady chuckle, and despite her flowing tears Zoey joins her. She turns to pull her mom into a tight embrace, then sighs.

“I just... I want him to know that I’ll be okay,” Zoey mumbles. “Even if  _ I  _ still don’t know if I will be.”

Maggie leans back and meets her eyes. “Then show him. I think you know how.”

Zoey chews on the inside of her cheek.  _ I think I might know, too...  _

* * *

She tells her mom she’ll finish putting the dishes away, and insists she go up to bed early.  _ “Do you want me to call a cab for you?”  _ Maggie had asked her.  _ “I don’t want you to walk all the way back to your apartment if you’re not feeling up to it. Or I can call someone.”  _ The way she emphasized  _ “someone”  _ didn’t slip past Zoey’s radar, but still she declined. And anyway, the fact that a certain  _ someone’s  _ face immediately popped up in her mind at her mom’s words was just about as obvious as Maggie’s prodding has been all this time.

Now everything is put away and the living room is straightened out again, so Zoey grabs her coat and prepares to go. She decides not to yell a goodbye up the stairs just in case her dad is already asleep, but before she can tiptoe out the front door, the sound of acoustic guitar echoes down from the second floor.

“Oh, great,” Zoey mutters. She almost leaves anyway, but she can’t ignore when her power calls out to her, especially when it’s her mom singing. She inches over to the base of the stairs, slowly climbing to the first landing to listen in. Maggie’s voice trembles, mournful and raspy, down the hall. It’s anyone’s guess, let alone Zoey’s, who it could be directed towards.

_ Well, if it makes you happy _

_ It can’t be that bad _

_ If it makes you happy _

_ Then why the hell are you so sad? _

Zoey finishes buttoning up her jacket and lets out a silent sigh. Usually heart songs are meant to provide her clarity so she can help others, but this one just threw a brick wall in her face. Feeling more confused than before, Zoey goes back down the steps, squeezes around Mitch’s stair lift, and slips out the door.

* * *

As usual, Handpicked is mobbed, even on a Thursday night. Max flattens himself against the building to get past a gaggle of vloggers broadcasting their “first best vegan experience in San Fran” on Instagram Live. He rolls his eyes when he manages to pass them without stepping on any toes. After his first and only time eating here with Autumn, he honestly doesn’t understand the hype about this place. The food wasn’t terrible or anything, but maybe he associates the restaurant with his ex now. He’s also just shocked that Zoey wants to come here after she vehemently declined the first time. 

Max chooses the least crowded area he can find to wait for Zoey.  _ Man, should’ve brought a balloon to hold on to so she could spot me,  _ he thinks to himself, sighing when a SUV pulls up to the curb and a fresh group of chattering college students pours out. Being on the cusp of thirty, Max really can’t bring himself to see eye-to-eye with younger twenty-somethings anymore. They feel like an entirely different generation.

He only spends about five minutes scrolling mindlessly through Twitter when there’s a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey!” Zoey chirps, giving him a quick hug before either of them can think it through. When she pulls back a second later, her face is already a few shades redder, and Max can’t help the way his chest swells at the knowledge that  _ he  _ made her blush like that. Well, it was him, or it was her blushing at what she did (which was hug him). But he’s going to assume the former.

“Hey, Zo,” he answers, gathering his composure. He nods at the crowd around them, which is swarming like a beehive. “I have to say, I’m surprised you wanted to come here after all. You seemed to decide you suddenly hated it a few months ago.”

“Yeah, well,” Zoey waves him away with a casual chuckle. “Thought I’d give it a chance. Everybody’s still talking about it after several months. I can’t live my entire life without having tried their chickpea puffs at least once.” Max picks up on the underlying strain in her voice almost immediately, but before he can comment on it she stands on her toes and peers between numerous heads and shoulders to see the entrance to Handpicked. “Soooo should we try to battle the masses and get inside?”

Max grimaces. “Yeah, about that...”

Zoey frowns at him. “I thought you said you’d get a reservation?” He purses his lips and rocks back on his heels, staring at anything except her.  _ “Max.  _ What—”

“They kind of, uh... don’t take reservations by phone anymore. Now you have to show up in person and wait in line to get one, and if you’re lucky enough to get that far, you go stand in another line to actually get in. It’s like waiting to get into a club, they even have a bouncer who checks your name on a list.” Max points to where a barely-defined line is stretching all the way around the corner beyond where they can see. “And that line’s snaking around the block. I heard someone say they’re running twenty minutes behind and it’s not even dinner rush yet.”

Zoey sucks in her cheeks. “Wow. Shit.” She stares around in disbelief. Suddenly, Max has to yank her back towards him to avoid getting trampled by a group of cyclists who just finished chaining their bikes to an already very crowded rack by the building. She lets out a squeak of alarm, but Max feels her relax in his grip when she realizes what he just saved her from.

“Sorry,” he stammers, releasing her so that she can spin to face him again. “I didn’t mean to grab you like that, they were—”

“Shush, Max, it’s fine. You probably just rescued me from having the underside of a two-hundred-dollar tennis shoe imprinted on my face for the rest of the night,” Zoey laughs, making him feel better instantly. Then she adds with a disheartened sigh, “Well, this is like Disneyland on non-GMO steroids, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not a fan. Let’s go.”

Max’s jaw drops. “But the chickpea puffs—” he starts to protest.

“The chickpea puffs can wait for another day,” Zoey insists, taking his arm and pulling him away from the chaos.

“So where are we going to eat, then?” Max asks as they make their way down the street. “Because I ate an early lunch to give myself plenty of space for three servings of that shoots n’ sprouts salad, and—”

“Don’t worry, we’re still gonna go somewhere good, because, um... I have something really important to tell you.”

Max halts at those words, and because they’re still attached hand to wrist, Zoey stumbles. She tugs at his arm, but he won’t budge.

“Max—”

“Why don’t you tell me right now? If it’s something to do with the legal stuff, really, I got that covered. Or did Mo mention a divorce party to you, too? Because I’m not sure I’m on board with that.”

The mischievous glint in Zoey’s eyes has suddenly faded, leaving stormy blue oceans in its wake. “It’s... not about that,” she tells him, the words barely audible. He lets her continue pulling him along, but her pace has been significantly subdued.

Ten minutes later sees them entering an In-N-Out Burger. After ordering, they tuck themselves into a table in the corner that looks like it hasn’t seen a cleaning rag in a few days. Max strategically places his elbows on the table in a way that dodges the sticky spots. Across from him, Zoey has folded herself in the booth, hugging her knees to her chest. He can’t get over how effortless her beauty is, like it’s something she just throws on in the morning along with her outfit. But Max knows that can’t be accurate, because Zoey Clarke never takes off her beauty. It’s always there, in the lilt of her voice when she tries to tease and in between the wisps of red hair that collect behind her ears.

To snap himself out of it, Max shoves a fry into his mouth and initiates the conversation he’s guessing she wants to avoid just as much as he does. “So I know we already talked about it, but the lawyer guy said it may be as simple as signing papers—”

“Yeah, signing a paper is how we got in this mess,” Zoey interrupts, lifting her milkshake straw up and down in the cup.

“And it’ll be how we get out of it,” Max replies, trying to convince himself that he neatly side-stepped that bullet to the chest. “Really, Zo, you don’t have to worry...”

She continues messing with the straw, plastic scraping plastic in a less-than-graceful symphony. “Easier said than done, Max,” she says flatly.

Max grits his teeth, knowing he’s tripped up here. With all she has going on at work and with her dad, it’s basically impossible for Zoey  _ not  _ to worry right now, and as much as Max hopes he hasn’t contributed to that stress, he knows he has.  _ Good going, you idiot,  _ he scolds himself.

“Zoey—” he starts, but then something weird happens. Her movement of the straw, something which has only just started to grate on his nerves, is now smooth and practiced, pausing then resuming at a steady beat. Zoey meets his gaze and, to his astonishment, begins singing with nothing but the scraping straw as her background music.

_ I just want to be okay, be okay, be okay _

_ I just want to be okay today _

_ I just want to be okay, be okay, be okay _

_ I just want to be okay today _

“Um, okay,” Max falters, staring as Zoey hops up out of her seat. She twirls slowly amongst tables populated by In-N-Out patrons, none of which take any notice of her antics.

_ I just want to feel today, feel today, feel today _

_ I just want to feel something today _

_ I just want to feel today, feel today, feel today _

_ I just want to feel something today _

Max scrambles to his feet and follows Zoey around the room, utterly awestruck by her vocals and movements. She’s no longer looking directly at him, apparently caught up in swaying her hips and running her hands up her body before continuing to the next verse.

_ Open me up and you will see _

_ I’m a gallery of broken hearts _

_ I’m beyond repair, let me be _

_ And give me back my broken parts _

“Zoey, what...” Max swallows around the lump in his throat. She snubs him, though, whisked away by an invisible force that compels her to leap up on a table. Her nimble feet skirt around people’s food while she springs from one surface to the next. She doesn’t lose Max’s rapt attention for a second.

_ I just want to know today, know today, know today _

_ I just want to know something today _

_ I just want to know today, know today, know today _

_ Know that maybe I will be okay _

“You  _ will  _ be okay, I promise!” Max yells to her despite knowing the effort is futile. He can’t comprehend how the two of them seem to be in their own virtual world here, like nobody else in this starkly-lit, unglamorous fast food joint can see this. It vaguely resembles the old days when he was in school musicals— and with the flawless, skilled performance Zoey is putting on both dance- and vocal-wise, he could believe they’re trapped in a musical.

_ Open me up and you will see _

_ I’m a gallery of broken hearts _

_ I’m beyond repair, let me be _

_ And give me back my broken parts _

_ Just give me back my pieces _

_ Just give them back to me please _

_ Just give me back my pieces _

_ And let me hold my broken parts _

__

Zoey prepares to make yet another leap down from a table, but Max can’t bear to watch her run the risk of sustaining a fracture despite zero signs of a slip-up so far. So he sprints over and positions himself in front of her, catching her mid-air. Zoey wriggles in his hold for a moment, then gives up and is limp in his arms by the time Max sets her back on the floor, breathless. Their personal tidbit of magic has melted away, leaving them standing bewildered in a fast food dining area full of strangers who are apparently none the wiser as to what just occurred.

“Zo,” he murmurs, staring at her with wide and serious eyes.  _ “What  _ was that?”

She shakes her head at him, confused for an entirely different reason. “What are you talking about?”

“Zoey.” Max takes her by the shoulders and lowers his head so they’re eye level with each other. “You just performed an entire musical number in this In-N-Out Burger, à la  _ Grease  _ or  _ Guys and Dolls  _ or something, except... much more depressing. I mean, it was a cheerful-sounding song, but the lyrics—”

“Wait, Max, slow down,” she begs him, so he pauses. “You’re... you’re saying _I_ just sang to _you?_ _And_ danced? And you’re the only one who noticed?”

“Just me, it seems, unless all these people are secretly insentient mannequins,” Max chuckles, sure he must be losing his mind. “And I’ve got news for you, Zo, this isn’t the first time you’ve sang to me and denied it.”

Zoey pulls him back into their booth, where their food is somehow still hot, like barely a minute has passed since this bizarre scenario began. “Well, I’ve got news for you, too,” she mutters, propping her head on one hand and popping open her milkshake lid to dip a fry in it. Normally Max would voice his disgust at that, but he’s too caught up in what she has to say.

“What is it?”

She swirls the fry around until it has a healthy dollop of chocolate milkshake weighing down one end. Zoey stares at it instead of him, and takes her sweet time enlightening him. “Max, I have this power—”

“Please don’t tell me you’re gonna sing that ‘I’ve got the power’ song now.”

“Max, I’m being serious,” Zoey says. “I... have a power. A musical power.” Finally she returns his eye contact, and he doesn’t see any hint of a playful glimmer there.

Max must really be losing his mind. He always thought he started losing it the day he met Zoey Clarke, which also happens to be the same day he fell for her. But this— this is a whole new level of insanity.

“Um... what?” he wheezes.


	7. just friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoey and Max finally have a conversation that should've happened a while ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the slow burn is real in this one, sorry guys! but i don't imagine this story will go on for that much longer... it might be less than 15 chapters, give or take. we'll see.
> 
> the adorable hot cocoa headcanon about zoey and mitch is courtesy of the lovely folks on the zep discord! and as always, thanks to everyone for the kudos and comments, they're much much appreciated <3
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "just a friend to you" by meghan trainor and "just friends" by amy winehouse (do you sense a pattern emerging? haha. also for any zoey/simon fans, "just friends" also fits them very well imo, so it's worth a listen...)

No matter how many times Zoey keeps going back over it in her head, she can’t make sense of what happened. Max had seen her sing and dance with his own eyes— had been able to describe word for word a very intricate number, none of which she has any memory of performing— and  _ still  _ he said to her,  _ “I can’t believe this. It’s too insane.” _

_ “Max, you know I wouldn’t lie to you, not about something like this. You know me.” _

_ “Yes, I know you, Zo, but I can’t—” _

_ “Then I’m going to leave, and you can come visit me when you start believing it.”  _

So Zoey stood up and left him sitting there in the booth with their virtually untouched food. She wanted nothing but the milkshake, and that’s what she’s sucking down now on the way back to her apartment.

She crashes up the stairs as the first peal of thunder rolls in overhead. It takes three tries to successfully feed her key into the lock, and the door isn’t open for more than five seconds before she’s inside and the outside world is firmly shut out again.

Zoey puts her back to the door and slides down to the floor, hanging her head between her knees. She can’t do this. She can’t. She’d thought her power was annoying enough before, but now here she is, unintentionally singing her own heart songs to important people in her life. At least for her entire life up to now, she’s had some kind of control over how she acts, but now even _that_ is taken away from her. 

The storm outside fully closes in, gripping her apartment building in a fist of brutal winds that make it sway back and forth. Zoey hugs herself as she walks into the kitchen, not bothering to flip on the lights in any of the rooms she passes through. She’s never been a fan of the darkness, but from the looks of the weather she soon won’t have a choice whether she wants light or not anyway. 

She shoves her milkshake into her barren fridge and briefly considers going over to Mo’s. If there’s anyone in the world who would at least try to justify this new twist in her power, he would. Even if Mo would probably also comment on Zoey’s disheveled state and lack of matching socks, she couldn’t care less. She is well aware she’s a wreck, so at least being called a model for a librarian’s fashion catalog (and definitely not the model on the cover) wouldn’t hurt her feelings right now.

So Zoey steels herself for the four-second journey across the hall, sliding on her least worn-out pair of slippers and a cardigan to cover the wrinkled work clothes she’s too lazy to change out of. Instead of looking in a mirror to cringe at the makeup on her face that’s likely aged poorly since this morning, she spares a glance at the crooked “Everything’s Under CTRL” poster by the door. Just looking at it prompts a friendly lopsided smile to appear in her mind, surrounded by a face that she can no longer deny she’s in love with. The ring on her left hand burns as if the metal is still molten; its mere existence paired with the label she and Max have forced upon it are too much to handle.  _ Just friends. We’re just friends.  _

Zoey slips out onto the landing and shuts the door softly behind her. Within three steps she’s at Mo’s door, and in three seconds she’s knocking on it. No answer comes immediately, which might be because a particularly loud crack of thunder absorbed whatever meek sound Zoey’s knuckles made on the door. She’s about to try again when the sound of someone pounding up the stairs and breathing heavily creeps up from behind her.

At first Zoey thinks it’s just a neighbor coming in from the rain, but then she hears her name, panted out in a familiar voice as if it’s the last name in the world, the ultimate antidote, the solution to all their problems.

She spins around and there’s one Max Richman, dripping wet and breathless, briefly bathed in a jagged shock of lightning. In his hands is what looks like a large box, but it’s concealed under his jacket, which he threw over it in lieu of keeping himself dry in the storm.

“Max,” Zoey starts, but he shakes his head rapidly, urging her to stop and listen.

“I- I can’t understand,” he murmurs, mounting the last step onto the landing and coming to meet her between her door and Mo’s. “But I want to believe, Zo. I do. Please, help me believe it.”

Zoey can’t stop herself from slicking back the hair that’s clinging to his forehead, glossy black in the poor lighting. Rivulets of rain dampen his cheeks like tears. “It’s crazy,” she tells him. “Really crazy. But...” She trails off when a violent shudder visibly ripples down his spine. “First, we’re getting you inside and warming you up.” 

Before he can protest, she takes his arm and guides him back inside her apartment, flicking on the light switch right away. The power flickers for a moment but complies, and Zoey motions for Max to follow her into the kitchen. 

“Cocoa or tea?” she calls over her shoulder despite already knowing the answer. (Max can  _ never  _ resist her hot chocolate— ever since Zoey’s dad taught her how to make it after she got her first bad grade, it’s the one thing she can make perfectly every time.) She has the homemade hot chocolate powder sitting out on the counter and is pouring the milk into a saucepan— the sole one she owns that’s rarely used other than to boil pasta— before Max answers with a knowing chuckle, “Cocoa, please.”

“Of course you want cocoa,” Zoey sighs softly, putting the saucepan over the one working stove burner and twisting it on. “You big baby.”

“What can I say? I’m a guy who likes it sweet,” Max replies, as if they’re just shooting the breeze at work and he’s not standing shivering in her kitchen after running through a violent storm to get here. Zoey’s trying not to dwell too much on just how much that means to her, because then she’ll never be able to keep a level head for this conversation. Basically everything Max does for her means the world, of course, but Zoey hates that it’s taken her this long to realize she would do the same for him in a heartbeat.

“So much for keeping it lean for the ladies,” Zoey says, at last turning to face him again. He’s still holding the mystery box, but the soaked jacket has been removed from it, as has the mystery. Turns out it’s a microwave, of all things.

“Yeah, well,” Max clicks his tongue and sidles farther into the room, setting the box on the little island. “Between my brothers and all the brogrammers, there’s really not that many ladies in my life, so...”

_ Besides me,  _ Zoey thinks. She kills that thought with a gulp and eagerly switches the subject. “So!” she says too brightly, peering at the microwave box. “Do you... pick up  _ every _ new appliance you happen to find on the street?”

“Trust me, I didn’t find this on the street,” Max laughs. He gives the box a couple affectionate pats and spins it so she can see the front. “I, uh, I just remembered that you said you broke your microwave again, and I thought if I was coming here anyway, I might as well grab a new one on the way over, and uh...” He scratches behind his head, a nervous dent forming in his brow that she’s well acquainted with because it only ever seems to appear around her. “I guess that sounds kinda dumb now, because there’s a chance you already bought a whole new microwave, or you ended up putting it back together without getting electrocuted after all, but... I dunno, maybe this could... be your backup one? So you have a microwave designated for taking apart and another one for, like, actual food.”

Zoey shuts up his rambling with a giggle. “It’s okay, Max, thank you. I... actually have  _ not  _ gotten around to buying a new one yet, so this is amazing. And... red,” she says, taking notice of the color marked on the box.

“Ah, well. Red makes me think of you,” Max says with a shaky shrug.

“Thank you,” she repeats. “But seriously, how can I repay you?” She pauses at the sudden solemnity in his face, his features smoothing out at the edges, and Zoey knows this means they’re launching back into  _ that  _ subject. To hide the trembling in her hands, she turns back to the stove and spoons some of the chocolate powder into the simmering milk.

“You can repay me,” Max says, and she can tell he’s moving closer to her, going around the island and coming to a stop close by at the counter. “By telling me what’s going on. Tell me about your... your power.”

Zoey has been meaning to tell him for a while now. It’s been months, after all, and she still can’t fathom how she hasn’t revealed it yet to her best friend of all people. Somehow it was easier to tell the neighbor she only met once or twice before, and now Mo has become one of her closest confidants and friends. So how could telling Max be any worse than that?

_ He’ll find out that you know about his feelings, and he’ll hate you forever and ever. But that’s no big deal, you can always move away, take a new name, and start life over in a different city.  _ But Zoey ignores her conscience, choosing instead to stir the mixture and not look at Max while speaking.

“I... I hear people sing. And I see them dance,” she explains slowly, as if even the most basic of phrases could ever piece together the mess her life has eroded into. “And I’m the only one who sees it.”

“But what is it they sing about?” Max asks. He reaches into a cupboard, knowing where the mugs are without having to ask, and he sets them next to the stove.

Zoey can see he’s still shivering slightly, so she’s quick to pour the hot cocoa into the mugs. She doesn’t have any marshmallows, but she does have half a can of whipped cream left in her pitifully empty fridge, so she grabs that. The can only manages to spit out a pathetic dribble over each drink, but it’s better than nothing, Zoey supposes. 

She doesn’t answer until they’re both sitting on the couch and Max has her fluffiest blanket around his shoulders. (He tries to insist it’s not necessary, but in response Zoey only wraps it more tightly around him.) And at last she says, “The songs are... well, it’s complicated. Most of the time they’re related to the emotions people are feeling. The ones deep down, the ones that are probably being... um, denied, and they just... come bursting to the surface via song. But I’m the only one who hears it.”

“And then what happens?” Max sips his cocoa and when he takes the cup away from his face, a thin line of whipped cream sits along his upper lip. Zoey resists the urge to wipe it away with her tongue. No, wait, thumb. She meant thumb. Oh, god, she’s losing control already.

“I... well, I usually try to help them. Because if I don’t, then the same song will keep haunting me wherever I go.” Zoey begins to count on her fingers as she thinks of the various ways heart songs have come to her in the past. “I’ve heard songs through car honks, TV commercials, the washing machine, rain, the microwave... well, before I broke it—”

“Okay, but when it’s actual  _ people  _ singing, I mean, who is it who usually sings to you?”

“All kinds of people.”

“So... strangers?”

“Yeah,” Zoey nods. Her nerves slowly start to fray as they tread into uncharted waters. “Um... strangers usually sing in an ensemble. And it’s not always something I have to help with, sometimes they’re happy. Like there was one time I walked past Krispy Kreme on national free doughnut day and everyone sang a verse of ‘Best Day Of My Life’ on the pier while hugging glazed doughnuts. I swear, this one guy even  _ kissed _ a doughnut.”

Max doubles over laughing, his cocoa dangerously close to spilling over. When he’s able to talk again, he snorts, “You have a creative mind, Zo.”

“It’s  _ not  _ my mind!” she insists, snagging his gaze desperately. “Well, technically it  _ is,  _ but it’s real. That really happened to me, I promise.”

His face sobers again, and an accompanying boom of thunder from outside the window reminds Zoey that it is definitely not that sunny day on the pier anymore. Max takes a breath and mutters, “Okay, so... what if it’s not a stranger who sings to you?”

She knew this question was coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier to answer. Zoey stares down at the melting whipped cream drifting around in her mug. “In that case, it’s... usually something more important, and I- I definitely have to help them out. But... sometimes I mess up. Or I think I’ve found a solution, but then I end up back at square one.” Bit by bit Zoey lifts her eyes to meet his, and finds nothing but an attentive expression and a persistent whipped cream mustache.

“Huh,” Max grunts, sitting back on the pillows and blinking at the blank TV screen. “So... if literally  _ anyone  _ can sing to you... does that mean  _ I’ve  _ sang to you at some point? The way you did earlier?”

Zoey absently rubs her thumb over a chip in the mug. “Yeah, the whole ‘me singing’ thing is still pretty new, and that I can’t even begin to explain—”

Max stares directly at her now, brow heavy. “But have  _ I  _ sung to you?”

Impulse gets the better of her; she reaches out a hand and swipes the whipped cream off his face with her thumb. Before she can actually  _ think  _ through what she’s doing, she then licks the whipped cream off her thumb while looking him dead in the eyes. Oh, no. No, no, no. She did  _ not  _ mean to do  _ that.  _ Of all the vaguely suggestive things she could’ve done, it had to be  _ that? Shit. _

A blush more aggressive than the thunderstorm outside fills in Max’s cheeks, and from the heat in her face Zoey knows she’s flushed as well. Tugging at her collar, she clears her throat and proceeds to dig herself into a deeper grave. “Um... is it just me, or is it like,  _ really  _ hot in here?” She sees a flash of Max’s dumbstruck face before she pulls her sweater up over her head and folds it on the table, leaving herself in the blouse she had on underneath.

“Yeah, it’s, uh...” Max coughs into his drink before taking a giant slurp. “Pretty hot,” he gasps a second later, and Zoey is sure he just scalded his tongue.

“You okay?” she whispers.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he says, dragged into another series of coughs that only go away when Zoey comes scurrying back in with a glass of water.

The air between them is stretched taut, abused by a tug-of-war of tense glances and awkward throat clearings. Zoey can’t take it anymore, so she goes ahead and answers the damn question while he’s chugging the water. “To— to answer your question, Max— yes, you have sung to me. Multiple times.”

He places the empty cup on the table. “Wow. Okay. And... you never thought about telling me sooner?”

“It was...” Zoey gestures helplessly. “I didn’t know  _ how  _ to tell you, because I didn’t think you’d believe me. That you’d think I was joking.”

“Yeah, well, you are known for your jokes,” Max quips. For a moment it looks as if he’s poised to stand up, but to her relief, he doesn’t. Since coming back from the kitchen a second time, Zoey’s new spot on the sofa is ever so slightly closer to him. She can barely catch a whiff of his scent under the competing damp clothes and hot cocoa smells; today the spearmint gum is clinging to him the most. It’s comforting despite the anxiety he gives her.

“Max, listen, I promise I would’ve told you—”

“What did I sing to you?” he interrupts.

“What?”

He looks hard at her, pupils darting back and forth, searching. “What did I sing to you, Zo?” The question comes out softer this time, but with more poignancy that hits Zoey like an arrow to the heart. She knows he knows now— he  _ must,  _ because she told him people sing to her about their deepest emotions. Their  _ suppressed  _ emotions.

“You... you sang to me about... your feelings,” she takes a deep breath, “for me.”

Max nods. “That’s what I thought.”

The silence is more deafening than the thunder outside, so Zoey scrambles to shatter it. “I- I wanted to tell you,” she whimpers. “I just didn’t know  _ how,  _ Max, and— I don’t know what I want...” She trails off when her brain throws up the roadblock.  _ That’s not true. You know what you want.  _

“You wanna know how I feel?” he asks, voice ominously low. Zoey’s stomach plummets. “I- I feel like I’ve been turned inside out against my will. I wanted to have a chance to confess my love to you, Zoey, in my own way on my own terms. To confess it the way most people get to. And that was taken away from me.”

Her eyes fill up to resemble his, which are already flooded. “I never meant for it to go this way,” she mumbles. “It was my power, and...”

“I’m not the only one your power exposed,” Max tells her. His hackles are no longer raised, but he’s still too cold for her to feel comfortable placing a comforting hand on his arm. She waits for him to reveal who else’s life her power has fucked up, but instead he starts singing gently.

_ Why you gotta hug me _

_ Like that every time you see me? _

_ Why you always making me laugh _

_ Swear you’re catching feelings _

_ I loved you from the start _

_ So it breaks my heart _

_ When you say I’m just a friend to you _

_ ‘Cause friends don’t do the things we do _

Zoey tries and fails to swallow the lump in her throat. The entire time Max is gazing so tenderly at her that she doesn’t notice the lack of background music— not even a raw acoustic guitar being plucked along to the lyrics. It’s just his voice in her apartment and the steady rain.

_ Everybody knows you love me too _

_ Tryna be careful with the words I use _

_ I’ll say it ‘cause I’m dying to _

_ I’m so much more than just a friend to you _

_ When there’s other people around _

_ You never wanna kiss me _

_ You tell me it’s too late to hang out _

_ Then you say you miss me _

_ And I loved you from the start _

_ So it breaks my heart _

_ When you say I’m just a friend to you... _

Max draws out the last word, eyes not leaving hers for a second. Zoey’s heart aches, but that doesn’t stop her from stretching out an arm to pet his hair, which has since dried and become feathery soft. She closes her eyes and holds her breath. It’s foolish because the heart song is definitely over by now, and any minute he’ll ask what in the world she’s doing, but—

Nothing happens. Her eyes pop open and Max is grinning that damn crooked grin of his. “Max?” His name ghosts over her lips, barely there at all.

“You say I’ve sung to you multiple times,” he says, swirling the cocoa in his mug. Zoey retracts her hand, jaw dropping. “So I thought another song wouldn’t hurt.”

“I...” She stares at her lap. “Wow.”

“Zo, do you remember that day in Joan’s office? When she told us about the Vegas trip?” Max slides his hands loosely into hers, their fingers perilously close to weaving together.

Zoey nods numbly.  _ How could I forget the trip that changed things between us forever, possibly more than my power already has?  _

“You sang to me that day,” he continues. “It took me a while to find the song. I spent a week googling the lyrics.”  _ Every day I learn we’re more alike,  _ she thinks. “And, unsurprisingly, it was a song called ‘Just Friends.’” He croons out what she assumes is the first line or two, and Zoey hates that she can imagine herself singing the same words.  _ “When will we get... the time to be... just friends?”  _

Zoey says nothing, just listens. She can’t deny whatever her power activated in her subconscious. But she is admittedly excited to tell Mo so he can analyze why only Max has heard her sing. And Simon. And who knows who else.

Max gives her hands a squeeze. “So what do you want, Zo? I- I don’t want to push you into anything, you know I don’t. But... it seems like we’ve laid out our feelings pretty clearly here.”

For a minute, Zoey has forgotten she’s currently sitting on the couch holding hands with the guy who is legally her  _ husband.  _ But he’s not just that... he’s her best friend, he’s  _ Max.  _ She’s known him for five years. She knows everything about him— that he played trombone in middle school then switched to learning the drums just to impress a girl; that he only likes the kind of chocolate milk that’s made when Cocoa Puffs leak flavor into the cereal milk; that he can’t stand Anna Kendrick because she looks like an ex-girlfriend from college, but he’ll tolerate watching her in  _ Pitch Perfect 1  _ and  _ 3,  _ but not  _ 2, never 2;  _ that he’s ticklish on the left side of his ribs but not the right; that on the day they met at SPRQ Point orientation, he guessed how she likes her coffee on the first try; that he’s truly the greatest companion she’s ever had.

And she just can’t lose him. A relationship would put  _ everything  _ on the line for them, and letting go of her friendship with Max on top of letting go of her father... it would be too much for her to handle. She can’t prevent the loss of her father, but she  _ can  _ stop things from going sour with the next most important person in her life.

So she turns her head away and speaks softly while looking at the dregs of her hot cocoa. “I’m just not ready yet, Max. I’m sorry.” She doesn’t need to look at him to know his face has fallen. The hands touching hers go slack, but don’t pull away. She presses on, desperate to make him understand. “I know that my power has stripped us of everything hiding how we feel, but... that doesn’t mean I want to risk us, risk  _ this.”  _ She lifts their hands and tugs at them meaningfully. “Not yet. Maybe one day I’ll... mentally catch up to the way I feel emotionally. But in the meantime, I really need you as a  _ friend,  _ Max.”

“Okay,” he replies. “Zoey, I...” He’s getting choked up now, and it only twists her heart more. “I care about you a lot, and I value your feelings more than my own. So I’ll... I’ll wait.”

She can’t take having any distance between them anymore. Without any second thoughts this time, Zoey scoots down to his end of the sofa and launches herself into his arms. He reciprocates immediately, placing warm, gentle hands on her back and holding her in a tight embrace. 

There’s still a lot for them to talk about— Zoey did notice the divorce paperwork sitting on Max’s desk today, before he could get a chance to put it away. She’ll never be sure what exactly their drunk selves were thinking that night in Vegas, but one thing is for sure: friends don’t get married, but  _ best  _ friends definitely do. Even if it’s accidental.


	8. untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoey consults Mo about her power glitch; later, Max has to make a big decision when he and Zoey are confronted with their mistake at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a shorter chapter this time around! honestly this took a different turn than i planned but it gave me a plot point that extends the story a little so... i guess that's a good thing? anyway, thanks to everyone who's reading, and i hope this brightens your monday blues a little bit :)
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "xo" by beyoncé and "baby i" by ariana grande.

It doesn’t take long for Zoey to barge into Mo’s apartment with an intense need for clarifying discussion. The next morning before work, she lays three powerful knocks on his door that have enough strength to blow it off its hinges. She just wants to make sure Mo hears her this time, that’s all.

After a few seconds the door falls open, revealing a thoroughly apathetic Mo who seems to have just emerged from the shower, if the bathrobe and towel turban on his head are any indication. Behind him, Beyoncé is belting out lyrics as if she’s performing a private concert in Mo’s living room:

_In the darkest night hour (in the darkest night hour)_

_I’ll search through the crowd (I’ll search through the crowd)_

_Your face is all that I see_

_I’ll give you everything_

_Baby love me lights out_

_Baby love me lights out_

_You can turn my lights out_

With nothing more a subtle eyebrow lift, Mo motions for Zoey to come inside. He hums along passionately to the song, swaying his hips, and if Beyoncé’s backing vocals weren’t so dominant, Zoey could see this being a very vivacious heart song.

 _“I love you like XO,”_ Mo chants, making his way to the Bluetooth speaker perched on the kitchen counter. _“You love me like XO...”_ Then, with a heavy sigh, he hits the pause button on the speaker and spins to face Zoey. “Alright, Zo-Bone, _please_ share what is important enough to interrupt Queen Bey.”

“Extend my apologies to... um, her majesty.” Zoey grimaces as she takes a seat on the sofa, clasping her hands in her lap. “But I have a crisis.”

As if he knew she would be inviting herself over, Mo already has a kettle squealing on the stove. He calls to her from the kitchen, “What category of crisis? Shall I wager a guess? I’ll take ‘Max’ for five hundred, Alex.”

“Very funny, but it’s not—” Zoey stops short, doing a double take when Mo comes into the room holding a tea tray. “Wait, how did you know?”

Mo grins stiffly at her as he sits down. He pours two measures of jasmine tea and, as usual, drops nearly his entire collection of sugar cubes into Zoey’s cup. “Zo-lander,” he says after a tense minute. “I know that storm last night was loud, but you and that boy have a mighty fine set of vocal cords yourselves.” Zoey’s face flushes, and he adds, “And _there’s_ the super-blush only you redheads get. That tells me everything I need to know.”

Zoey’s hand shakes as she stirs the sugar into her tea, the spoon clinking noisily against the china. “Okay,” she challenges in a last-ditch effort to preserve her dignity, “but if our conversation— and it was nothing more than that, by the way— if it was so loud, then why didn’t you answer the door when I knocked?”

For the millionth time this morning, Mo lifts his brows at Zoey. The next second, Eddie appears from around the corner, very much unexpected and very much shirtless. He slides on a tank top and comes over to peck Mo on the lips. “Hey, Zoey,” he greets Zoey and her ever-deepening blush. He glances at Mo again to address him. “I’m gonna take off now, babe. We still on for the pier tomorrow?”

“You know it!” Mo answers. Then before Zoey can blink, Eddie is gone and Mo resumes smirking knowingly at her. “See, you weren’t the only lovestruck fool who had a _special guest_ over last night,” he says.

Zoey takes a scone from the tray and starts nibbling at it, but she inhales a few crumbs at his words. “Yeah,” she coughs, reaching again for her tea to wash down the awkwardness. “I see that you were _quite_ busy.”

“And what about it?” Mo asks innocently, channeling his inner Ariana Grande. Reading her mind, he continues, “Speaking of which, I need to add Ari next on my playlist. ‘Baby I’ is my _jam!”_ He starts to get up to revive the speaker, but stops and instead fixes his full attention on Zoey. “Right. Damage control first. What happened with Max?”

“Well, it’s more like... what happened to my _power,_ and how did _Max_ apparently absorb some of it?”

Mo stares at her with his jaw hanging open. “Come again?”

Zoey bounces her leg in frustration. She doesn’t have much time before she has to leave for work, and despite tossing and turning all night after Max went home, she still hasn’t been able to find a clear way to explain the glitch in her power. “It’s not just Max, though,” she mumbles, partially thinking out loud rather than trying to be coherent. She can only hope Mo hangs on for the ride. “Because Simon said he heard me sing to him also. So now I’ve apparently sung to Simon once and Max twice, and I have zero memory of doing such a thing.”

“Like, none at all?” Mo asks.

“None,” Zoey confirms.

“And you believe what they’re telling you?”

“I mean...” She shrugs, picking at the scone in her hands until it’s crumbled into blueberry dust in the napkin. “How can I _not?_ They didn’t know about my power, so it’s not like they’re making fun of it. Max only just found out last night. And it’s so strange a thing to make up, I feel like it _has_ to be true.”

Mo hums thoughtfully and leans forward in his seat. To Zoey’s relief, he only spares a disdainful glance at her ruined scone, but doesn’t comment any further on it. “So how did they act when you sang to them? Did they do that little zone-out thing you do, or—?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Zoey says, pleased that she can give another definitive answer. “And they were totally confused, of course. Because they were the only ones who apparently heard me. And when they told me about it, I denied it, because as far as I was concerned, not even a second had passed— let alone a whole dance number!”

“Yeah, well, that sure as hell sounds like a power reversal,” Mo agrees. “Listen, Zo-Zag, I think I know what your next question is, and let me just say it’s _pretty_ obvious why it was those two specific boys you sang to.”

Zoey hides her face behind her teacup. “Because they both mean a lot to me,” she mumbles into her drink. Even if Simon still seems to have shunned her for now, that doesn’t mean she cares about him as a friend any less.

“That’s right,” Mo nods. “But you have to keep in mind that most people can hide what they feel deep down. Suddenly _you_ can’t, and there’s a reason you can’t, and there’s a reason why you can’t around Simon and Max. Think about what you sang to them— what were those songs about? What was your subconscious trying to tell them? Assuming you know what you sang.”

Zoey opens her mouth to reply, but then a notification pops up on her phone and she takes notice of the time. “Oh, crap! I’m gonna be late!” she cries, hopping up and practically sprinting to the door.

Mo follows her, not hesitating to flick the music back on as he watches her go. “You think about what I said!” he yells, leaning out to peer across the hall, where Zoey is holding her door open with one foot and grabbing her bag and coat with both flailing arms.

“Yeah, yeah, I will,” Zoey pants, already halfway down the first flight of stairs. The mere thought of thinking about that, as ridiculous as that sounds, makes her stomach go acrobatic. She’s never dreaded an upcoming thought before, because they usually creep up on her out of nowhere. Not this time, though. She’ll have to confront it. And analyze a lot of lyrics.

Behind her, booming pop music leaks out of Mo’s apartment again, this time what Zoey assumes is the Ariana Grande song he praised. The tune follows Zoey out of the building and all the way down the block, music notes and lyrics clinging to her like rain to glass.

_When I try to explain it, I be sounding all crazy_

_Words don’t ever come out right_

_I get all tongue-tied and twisted_

_I can’t explain what I’m feeling_

_And I say baby, baby, baby I_

_All I’m tryna say is you’re my everything_

_But every time I try to say it, words, they only complicate it..._

* * *

The city is still damp after last night’s thunderstorm. Max stands at one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows on the fourth floor of the SPRQ Point building. The glass is speckled with light rain, and the world outside is painted in muted watercolors that bleed gray through the droplets on the window. It’s difficult to imagine having this view from two floors above, especially when that upgraded view would come with the cost of turning back around and not seeing his best friend sitting among the cluster of desks.

Slowly, Max wanders back over to his computer, noting Zoey’s prolonged absence with a worried bite to his lip. He’s out of gum and forgot to buy a new pack on his way in this morning, so now he has nothing to chew on but his lip and his distress. He already spent all last night gnawing on that distress like it was a jawbreaker; it had been hard being around Zoey and not telling her about his possible promotion. Every word he spoke that wasn’t about it added to the choking lump in his throat, and it got to the point where he was amazed he could speak at all without words snagging on the clot of lies. (No, no, he has to keep reminding himself. He’s not lying, just... withholding information.) Anyway, they’d had other important things to discuss last night. And, to his dismay, there’s still more to come.

Zoey finally arrives in the office at almost half-past nine, rushing off the elevator so quickly her feet are almost a blur. Today she has green cashmere on, layered underneath with a white blouse patterned with tiny black hearts small as pinpoints. Her hair falls in velvety waves, framing her face despite a clear attempt at a partial updo to keep it back. She swats impatiently at the escaped strands, emitting a weary groan as she sits down at her desk. 

Max prepares to say hi— an act that was once second nature has since become something he now constantly overthinks— but Zoey hasn’t been sitting for ten seconds before Joan yells her name. It’s a brusque summons muffled by the glass walls encasing their boss’s office, but it’s sorely heard and Zoey allows one second to share a sympathetic grimace with Max before she’s back up and venturing towards what he guesses is a scolding. She was only twenty or so minutes late, but Joan has always been one to encourage the “arrive early, stay late” lifestyle when it comes to work. Above all, though, Max is curious as to _why_ she was late.

So he sits and waits, boredly plugging in code while semi-paying attention to Tobin lament to anyone who will listen about his breakup with Abigail.

“I really thought she was the _one,_ man,” he sighs.

Leif crosses his arms and turns up his nose. “Yeah, and I thought the sixth floor was the one for me,” he sneers. “But they went for somebody _lesser_ instead.”

Max does his best to ignore them. Ignoring becomes a lot easier, however, when a minute later Joan calls him to her office.

He enters and finds Zoey perched stiffly in one of the chairs (Joan thankfully has two chairs in here now), her head lowered and gaze fixed on her shoes. Dread scrapes Max’s stomach hollow and he hurries to take the other seat. “Uh, hel... lo,” he mutters, stumbling between the two syllables. His eyes flash from one woman to the other. “What’s the matter?”

Joan sits back and shakes her head, rubbing her temples like she has a killer headache. Max has now seen her hungover, but somehow she looks more drained now than the morning after in Vegas. “You know,” she begins, manicured nails drumming a disapproving rhythm on the desk, “I already had trouble taking you two seriously, because you both have names that I would use to christen a pair of finicky shih tzus.” Max shifts uncomfortably, but Zoey doesn’t even blink at the thinly-veiled insult. “But now you’ve gotten yourselves into a situation that would cause an uproar in HR.”

Max startles, now almost positive he knows what this is about. “You’re talking about—” he starts, but Joan cuts in.

 _“Yes,_ Richman, a little birdie told me that you two tied the knot when we were in Vegas.” Joan huffs a short, humorless laugh. “Right under my nose!” She leans forward, threatening index finger poised. “Call me a hypocrite all you like, but at least my... _fling_ has been terminated. Meanwhile, you two told me nothing was going on between you, then went ahead and made it official on a _business_ trip, and have continued to keep it under wraps. For you two to even _date,_ as a supervisor and subordinate, would be an issue that has to be approved or rejected by HR. But you didn’t go that route, did you.”

Zoey has gone pale as a ghost. She still says nothing. Max knows what he has to do, even if it’ll kill him.

“Joan, as crazy as it sounds, it was completely unintentional,” he says, keeping his voice as level as he can manage. He isn’t sure how much Zoey has or hasn’t already explained, so he keeps it short and sweet. “It was a stupid mistake, yes, but we’re working on reversing it. In the meantime, I... I’ve decided I want to take the job on the sixth floor. That should eliminate any HR issues here... right?”

Joan stares at him in shock. _“You?”_ she chuckles. _“You_ wanna go work up in ‘DRK Point’ for that witch? I... I can’t advise you _not_ to, because it’s a good move career-wise, and it _would_ clear up this mess you two made. And anyway, Ava could stand to have a little glimmer of brightness up where the sun doesn't shine, hm?” She nods at them, a clear dismissal. “Okay. Case closed. You can go back to work now, if anyone still does that around here anymore.”

Max lets Zoey file out ahead of him, but they only make it a few steps before she whirls around and pulls him behind a pillar to shield their conversation from Joan. Before she can speak, Max tries to squeeze in a warning: “Zo, us talking privately like this might look sketchy, I don’t know how far any rumors have flown yet—”

“Max,” she says, voice collapsing around his name. That alone is enough to bring him to a screeching halt. “Max, what job?”

“I... I was going to tell you,” he stammers. “There just— the time wasn’t right, and my mind was on other things, and...”

Before he can go on, she wheels around and stalks away to the elevators.

“Zo!” Max calls, jogging after her and clambering onto the elevator with her. She makes a face but doesn’t push him off. “Zoey, where are you going?”

“I’m going to Starbucks and getting Joan a coffee to compensate for my fuck-up,” Zoey grumbles, leaning against the wall hugging herself.

Max bites back a sigh. “You mean _our_ fuck-up.”

“Don’t correct me right now, Max, I...” She screws her eyes shut, stomping hard when they get off the elevator and step back out onto the street. “I can’t _believe_ you didn’t tell me about your promotion! I mean, that’s an _incredible_ opportunity, and so important for you, and you... you didn’t _tell_ me.”

Max hunches his shoulders against the April chill, doing his best to keep up with her angry march down the block. “Yeah, it’s important _for_ me,” he says, “but not that important _to_ me. I’m— I’m not all that thrilled about it, Zo, really. I was thinking about turning it down until—”

“Are you kidding me?” she growls, wrenching open the door to Starbucks and disappointedly scanning over the long line ahead of them. “I hope you wouldn’t have turned it down just because...” She freezes, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes.

“Well, what would you want me to do?” he asks quietly.

“What I want doesn’t matter—”

“It matters to me,” Max insists.

Zoey throws her hands up in the air. She is the picture of stress, hair frizzing at various angles and one side of her shirt collar flipped inside-out. Still, she couldn’t be any more achingly beautiful. “I... I want you to take the job, Max. You shouldn’t hold yourself back just for me, or for anyone. I want you to... to live long and prosper, you know?” She makes an attempt at the Vulcan salute, but she can’t get her fingers separated just right and they both end up dissolving into giggles.

Though he is grateful that the mood has been lightened a little, Max can’t deny that her words pierce his heart. She wants him to be happy... and she doesn’t want to hold him back from any opportunities. Even if it means they’ll be a few floors apart... and in that case, he couldn’t _be_ happy, not fully.

“It won’t be that bad,” he says aloud after a minute, as they inch closer to the front of the line. He thinks he’s trying to convince himself more than her. “I mean, I’ll still be in the same building. I won’t be that far away.”

“Yeah, not that far at all,” she replies. Since she chooses not to comment on the poorly-disguised tension woven between her words, Max also elects to ignore it. He supposes he’s already provoked her enough today. 

They don’t speak again until they leave the coffee shop fifteen minutes later.

“So,” Zoey says, handling Joan’s venti doubleshot with care (reliably, the barista misspelled their boss’s name as “Joelle” on the cup), “while I’m still kind of mad at you, have you had any more gossipy phone conversations with my mom recently?”

“They’re not... _gossipy,”_ Max retorts, rolling his eyes. “Maggie is a great listener, and I appreciate frequent updates on how Mitch is doing.”

Zoey frowns, pausing a moment on the sidewalk which causes Max to nearly hit a telephone pole. “Wait... are you seriously saying I don’t give you enough updates on my dad?”

“No, no, not at all, I, um... listen, Zoey, I really like your mom, and I see her as a really dear friend, so that’s why we talk. I swear.”

There’s a minute of silence during which he crinkles the pastry bag nervously in his hands. Then she says, “Well, while we’re on the subject, do you wanna come to family game night next week? My mom has been _dying_ to see you in person.”

He picks up on the hint of feigned resentment in her tone and laughs. “Oh, is she now? Sure, I’d love to be there. I’m curious to see Mitch’s board game techniques in action. I hear he’s a real crook at Candyland.”

“Yeah,” Zoey chuckles. “He’s been known to stow away a double color card or two, then ‘magically’ find it again later.”

They fall into companionable silence until they reach the fourth floor again. The elevator doors roll apart and Max knows he’s running out of time to cough up what he has to say.

“By the way, um... while we’re on the subject of upcoming events... there’s a meeting with the, uh, the divorce lawyer.” Max mumbles out the words, rubbing his arm when she stops and glances up at him. “Next week. On Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” Zoey clicks her tongue. “So... same day as game night.”

Max tries not to laugh. “We can go straight from the meeting to your parents’ place.”

“Oh, yeah, sounds like a fun date,” she quips.

“Yep,” Max says, narrowing his eyes and staring at her with a mixture of amusement and anguish. That’s a typical collision of emotions for him these days. (Briefly, he wonders if he’s sung to Zoey at all today. He hopes she would tell him if he did.)

After a couple more heart-thudding seconds of hesitation, he nods and forces a smile. “It’s a date,” he confirms. Then, against his better judgment, he reaches out and fixes her upturned collar, his fingers just barely grazing the soft skin at her neck. And if he hears her sharp intake of breath (which he absolutely does), he pretends not to.

A few hours later, when Max returns to his desk after his lunch break, he finds a brand-new pack of spearmint gum sitting on his closed laptop. He tries to catch Zoey’s eye, but when he does she only smiles vaguely in his direction before turning away again.


	9. golden/love you for a long time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoey and Max go to her parents' house. Zoey sees Max holding a baby. Zoey melts. 'nuff said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, kudos and comments are much appreciated! my love goes out to all of you <3
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "golden" by harry styles and "love you for a long time" by maggie rogers.

Of course the following Wednesday happens to be the sunniest day of the week.  _ What a beautiful day to get divorced,  _ Zoey thinks with idle amusement, because if she’s learned anything recently, it’s that if something sucks, try to poke fun at it. Even if that doesn’t make her feel better at all.

After their agreement to right what was apparently wronged in Vegas, Max wasted no time filing for divorce, and not long after Zoey was served the papers in the mail. She could hardly believe it when she first opened the envelope and the next several intimidating steps in her life came tumbling out. But this is what they wanted, right? Yeah, it was exactly what they wanted— which is why Zoey took one look at the papers (and saw the word “divorce” sprinkled in about a million times alongside her name and the name of her best friend) and promptly stored them away for a few days. She had about thirty days to respond, and though one month wasn’t enough to accept this insane turn of events, Zoey planned to take advantage of the harmful tactic of denial for just a little while longer.

It was her finally taking the time to officially respond that led to this meeting.  _ “We want a quick settlement,”  _ Max had said to the attorney, sparing Zoey half a glance to check her reaction,  _ “because the nature of our, um, union was... also quick, I guess.”  _

Now they emerge from the courthouse with a new meeting set in a few weeks, one that should finalize things. Zoey moves slowly down the steps of the building, swinging her arms and refusing to notice the effect Max has on her by being so close at her side. She can hear him just barely humming a tune, but when she looks at him his brow is furrowed and he appears more troubled than anything. Then he notices her eyes on him and tugs his frown up into a smile instead.

“Well, I never thought I would serve divorce papers to  _ you  _ of all people,” Max chuckles, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Really? That was on  _ my _ bucket list,” Zoey says, and they both laugh.

It’s close to six o’clock now, and game night at the Clarkes’ isn’t until six-thirty, so they take their time walking along the streets they know so well, meandering aimlessly as if San Francisco has become a giant unknown maze. Zoey can empathize with that mentality, because up until recently she thought her life had a clearly set trajectory. But then she took a detour into, well,  _ Max,  _ and because the only direction life ever wants to go in is forward, that terrifies her.

They’re stumbling laughing out of yet another trivial conversation— they’re just as good at those as they are at the more serious talks, which Zoey thinks is a good thing even if they tend to steer around the serious stuff— when she remembers something. For the fifth time since last Friday, she pulls a pack of spearmint gum out of her purse and drops it in Max’s hands.

“Wow, another one?” he says, staring carefully at her like she might have memory issues. “Really, you shouldn’t have.”

“Ah, well,” she says, waving him off and staring at passing cars instead of at him.

“Really, Zo,” Max insists, words broken up by a snort. “You  _ shouldn’t  _ have. I’m, like, drowning in packs of gum now. Is this some, I don’t know,  _ prank  _ or social media challenge I don’t know about?”

Zoey winces and throws her hands up innocently. “Hey, I’m sorry. If you’re sick of Trident mint, I can try other brands and flavors to make up for it.”

Max stops on the sidewalk and reaches out a hand to stop her as well. When a disgruntled scooter rider almost crashes into them, Max yanks her safely out of the way at the curb. “Make up for  _ what?”  _ he demands, eyes bulging in exasperation. “Zoey, what could you possibly have to make up to me?”

She lowers her gaze, finding a loose thread at the hem of his shirt to fixate on but not daring to touch it. “The, uh... the microwave,” she admits. Right away an embarrassed giggle bursts out of her, as if it could smother the words that have already come out. “I wanna pay you back for the microwave, that really nice, top-model,  _ shiny  _ red microwave, but since you won’t let me pay you back directly, I thought I could do it in packs of your favorite gum. But then I was doing the math, and it’s $1.19 per pack up against an estimated $115 or so for the microwave, and I realized that’s a  _ lot  _ of packs of gum, but I didn’t wanna be doing this for six months, so I thought if I divided—”

“Hey, nerd,” Max interrupts, cutting off her rant with a simple smirk that brings her eyes to his face once again. “It’s okay. No explanation needed. I appreciate the sentiment, Zo, but really, it’s not necessary. Remember, you already paid me back by telling me the truth about your... ‘power,’” he reminds her.

Zoey groans. “That barely  _ counts,  _ Max. All I did was prove to you I’m even more insane than usual lately.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay, because I like you, and I don’t mind you being insane.”

She falls forward and buries her face in his chest. “But now I owe you even  _ more  _ for putting up with me _.”  _ She feels his heart thud through the thin fabric of his shirt and immediately Zoey steps back, knowing her heart is matching his beat for beat.

They resume walking and Max is silent for a moment; then, with a shit-eating grin firmly perched on his lips, he mutters, “The microwave was $200, by the way.”

_ “Max!”  _ Zoey squeals, livid that he would spend that much on her. Before she can find it in herself to slap his arm, though, he takes off running down the street. Zoey only hesitates for half a second, then she jogs after him. People are staring and the world is a dizzying blur around her but she doesn’t care. Her sole objective is chasing down her best friend, grabbing his shirt in her fists, pulling him close to her, and—

And telling him how annoying he is. That’s all.

Zoey can’t recall the last time she’s sprinted (maybe never), and now it’s hitting her hard how out of shape she is. Not to mention they’re rapidly approaching the bottom of an infamous San Francisco hill, and there is no way in hell she’s climbing that  _ while  _ running, in  _ these  _ stiff work clothes, in  _ this  _ century. She screams his name again and Max starts to slow his speed. They receive many odd looks from strangers, but Zoey couldn’t care less about that. That is, until the passersby stop just passing by and start dancing instead. An assortment of people form a ragged semicircle behind Max as he whirls around to face her. In one smooth glide, he’s right in her face and blessing her with that sexy voice of his.

_ Golden, golden, golden _

_ As I open my eyes _

_ Hold it, focus, hoping _

_ Take me back to the light _

_ I know you were way too bright for me _

_ I’m hopeless, broken _

_ So you wait for me in the sky _

_ Browns my skin just right _

The exuberant backing choir brings the once-quiet street to life. Cars are stopping, more eager dancers piling out and joining Max’s performance. Zoey stands frozen to the spot. She’s well aware of the countless others skipping and twirling around, but she only has eyes for the star of the show.

_ You’re so golden _

_ You’re so golden _

_ I’m out of my head _

_ And I know that you’re scared _

_ Because hearts get broken _

_ I don’t wanna be alone _

_ I don’t wanna be alone _

_ When it ends _

_ Don’t wanna let you know _

_ I don’t wanna be alone _

_ But I, I can feel it take ahold _

_ I can feel you take control _

_ Of who I am and all I’ve ever known _

_ Loving you’s the antidote _

Zoey gulps, listening to his passionate repetition of the chorus. Then with a blink, it’s all gone. The cars that pulled over haphazardly, the people spilling onto the sidewalk from boutiques and cafes, have all disappeared back where they came from. The only one left is Max, standing there panting at the base of the next hill, eyes steady on her.

“What?” he gasps, and Zoey has to remind herself he’s breathless because of their childish jog,  _ not  _ because he just initiated an impromptu flash mob. 

She prepares an excuse for what she’s sure was a very blank-stare, three-second zone-out moment, but then remembers she promised him she would be more truthful about her power. “Well, uh...” Zoey clasps her hands behind her back, tipping all her weight onto her heels. “You just sang to me.”

Something flickers across his face like a shadow, but it’s gone before she can try to decipher it. “Do you... know what song?”

“Hmm.” Zoey’s eyes roll up to the sky in thought. “I swear I’ve heard it on the radio recently—”

“— because  _ you,  _ Zoey Clarke, listen to the radio all the time—”

“Hey!” She glares at him. “Do you wanna know or not?”

Max crosses his arms. “You don’t know it.”

“I think it’s a... a Harry Styles song, or something. I don’t know. One of the Backstreet guys.”

Max looks like he could faint. “You mean  _ One Direction?”  _ he corrects her, choking out a laugh.

Zoey starts dragging him down the sidewalk again. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were such a boy band fanatic.”

“I am, and I’m not ashamed of it.”

She elbows him in the ribs. “Come on, we’re gonna be late if we don’t get moving.”

* * *

Zoey and Max are standing on the stoop of the Clarke residence for maybe two seconds when David swings open the front door. One arm is holding open the door to usher them in while the other arm is balancing a screaming baby. “Oh, thank god,” he says, and without warning he dumps Zach in Max’s arms.

“Hello to you too,” Zoey says, watching her brother’s shoulders slump in relief.

“Sorry, I’m just exhausted— make sure you support his head,” David mumbles, flexing his sore arm and watching Max’s movements like a hawk. Max apparently didn’t need the instruction, however, because in under a minute he’s gotten his bearings  _ and  _ managed to calm Zach down.

Both Zoey and David stare dumbly at him. Max is unaware of their shock at first, his full attention on the baby as he bounces him gently in his arms. Then he looks up and cracks an uncertain smile. “What is it?”

“You... how, uh, how did you do that?” David sputters. “Do you have, like, a magic touch or something? Because if you do, Em and I could really use it.”

“Oh,” Max says with a shrug, the definition of humble. “I’ve held my brother’s kids when they were babies, so... I guess I just have experience? I dunno.”

Zoey barely hears his answer, too swept up in the scene before her. She never imagined Max, just-her-best-friend Max, holding a child would have this effect on her. The desire to safely transfer her nephew elsewhere, then take Max’s face in her hands and kiss his lips until they’re raw, hits her like a freight train. It’s a feeling that she’s only ever acknowledged one other time, that night he stood shirtless in Mo’s apartment.  _ “Hey, my eyes are up here, Zoey.” _

Her bad, annoying, very  _ not  _ platonic thoughts are shattered by what David says next. “So,” he whispers, briefly leaning into the living room to check that it’s empty. “How is the whole... divorce thing going?”

Zoey pins him with a full-on laser stare for that. As if she needed to be reminded of where they literally just came here from.

“What?” Her brother raises his palms in surrender. “I was just wondering! You seemed really torn up by it, so—”

“It’s going fine,” Max cuts in to squash the incoming sibling squabble. He continues to cradle the baby to his chest and Zoey continues to gawk at them. “We’re taking it one step at a time.”

“Because that’s what friends are for,” Zoey adds a little too forcefully, sliding off her jacket and shoving it into David’s arms. “We work through things together.”

Unfortunately, he’s not done provoking her yet, though he does oblige her by hanging her jacket on the coat rack. “Yeah, because, y’know, friends casually get married and divorce each other  _ all  _ the time. My buddy Tim and I just did that last Saturday, it was a blast.”

Zoey can feel the tips of her ears flame bright red. They’re not even out of the foyer yet and already she’s stressed. “Stop it, Dave, please! What if Mom or Dad overhear?”

Again, Max swoops in to the rescue with a pointed cough which grabs David’s attention. “Hey, dude, you and Emily got my baby gift, right?” He tries to shift Zach back to his dad, but the infant is nestled comfortably on Max’s chest, stuck to him like Velcro. “I would’ve been there to give it in person, but then I didn’t want too much time to pass, so...”

He trails off when Maggie appears from the kitchen holding a platter of sliders. She nearly drops them when she lets out a subdued shriek that’s quickly followed by “Max! You made it!”

“Of course I did,” he replies, his smile restored.

Maggie puts down the tray and scurries over, eyes wide and arms outstretched to pull him into an awkward hug considering the bundle still sleeping soundly in his clutch. “Oh, wow, you’re so good with babies,” she gushes, shooting Zoey a glance that makes her face burn. So that’s Maggie’s greeting to her daughter, huh? Just a mischievous gander? Not even a hug? It’s obvious her mom is being genuine while also putting on a bit of a show, for reasons Zoey doesn’t like.

“Well, this one at least likes me,” Max laughs. 

David reaches for Zach, and Max carefully deposits him back in his arms. “Thanks for soothing him, Uncle Max. I think you may have captured my son’s affections forever.”

“Then it’s a good thing he’ll be sticking around awhile, right?” Maggie says. Without waiting for an answer, she herds the guys into the living room and motions for Zoey to join her in the kitchen. Zoey bites back a sigh, already knowing what this will be about. With a distinct lack of female friends in her life, Zoey has never had a problem referring to her mother as a friend— until now.

Zoey lets herself be dragged into the kitchen, where Howie is finishing up plating a crazy amount of fluffernutters. He looks up when they come in, then points an excited finger at the stack of sandwiches. “For dessert,” he tells them, then has the good instinct to vacate the room.

The moment he’s gone, Maggie spins around so smoothly Zoey almost expects another music number to start.

“So,” she begins, tilting her head at her daughter. “How are you and Max doing?”

Fear bites at Zoey’s stomach for a heartbeat or two, but she drowns it in a sip of wine. There’s no way David would have told her, right?  _ Not if he wants to live to see his son turn a month old.  _

“We’re... doing... well,” she answers, eyes following the movement of the wine bottle as her mom pours glasses. “I’m not sure why this has to be asked in private.”

“What are you talking about? I only wanted you to help me pour the wine,” Maggie hums while looking down, but Zoey doesn’t miss the twinkle in her eye. “Anyway, I didn’t realize Max is the baby whisperer. David and Emily could hire him full-time.”

“Ha, ha,” Zoey deadpans. “I mean, he  _ is  _ an uncle and he used to babysit when he was younger, so I get it.” Her eyes drift out to the living room, where she can barely catch a glimpse of Max talking to Mitch.

“I know you’ll hate me for saying this,” Maggie continues, and a cold sweat drips down Zoey’s back, “but you two would have the cutest baby.” When an expression of horror emerges on Zoey’s face, she nods and quickly explains, “I know, I know, you don’t wanna hear that. But listen, Zoey, when I met your dad—”

“I’m— I’m, umm, gonna take these glasses to the living room,” Zoey says. She randomly snatches up a few glasses, some of which she’s sure aren’t even filled yet, and zooms out of the kitchen. Somehow in the short walk she trips twice on the carpet. By the time she’s setting them on the coffee table, the glasses are trembling violently in her hands, clinking together in an ear-piercing titter that seems to be mocking her.

Both Max and Mitch give her curious looks, but Zoey ignores them. They become easier to ignore when the next second her dad unleashes a series of choking coughs. 

Zoey is back up out of her seat in an instant, hovering over her father with a hand on his back. Wordlessly Max scoots over on the couch to allow her to sit beside him. “Dad,” she murmurs, too alarmed to think of raising her voice. “Are you okay?” Her eyes dart over to Howie, who is up and rummaging through his supply bag. “H- Howie, what’s the matter? Has this happened before? I don’t...” She trails off when a hand lands on her knee. Any other hand wouldn’t be nearly as pacifying, but  _ this  _ hand happens to be attached to Max, who keeps it rooted there with the modesty and firmness of love.

“It’s okay,” Howie assures her right as the coughs finally stop. He meets Mitch’s gaze and reads his patient’s face carefully. Zoey is so caught up in her worry that she doesn’t notice Mitch typing until she hears the little  _ buzz.  _

Max peers at the computer screen, his hand pressing into her thigh. “‘OK,’” he reads. Faintly Zoey lays her hand on top of his, and she feels him tense up.

“He has an appointment with the doctor tomorrow morning,” Howie says. “I called him earlier today when Mitch first started coughing.”

David frowns. “Has it gotten any worse since then?”

“A little bit,” Maggie says, fiddling with her glass. “But we’re getting him in first thing tomorrow, so there won’t even be time for it to get worse.”

Zoey knows her mom is the queen of wishful thinking, and that’s sorely apparent now when she receives nothing in response but tense silence.

A moment later, Emily enters the room after putting Zach down for a nap upstairs. She pauses, eyebrows raised as she scans over the solemn faces. “What did I miss?”

* * *

It takes an enormous amount of self-control for Zoey to get up and leave her parents’ house. She would be far more comfortable taking the night shift for Howie and sitting vigil at her father’s bedside all night. But Maggie begs her to go home, tells her it’ll be alright, and promises to meet her at the doctor’s office at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Zoey chances a look at Max to see if he’ll help her argue, but it’s clear from the gentle way he’s steering her to the door that he’s on her mom’s side. Of  _ course  _ he is.

Before she and Max can take their leave, she runs back over to the sofa one more time. “I love you,” Zoey sniffles into Mitch’s shoulder. She hugs him tight enough so that maybe, with any luck, they’ll get stuck together permanently and she’ll never have to let him go.

That’s when a quiet chorus of  _ “ooh ooh ooh, ooh ooh ooh”  _ floats into the room, bringing with it a steady thrum from a bass. Zoey leans out of the embrace, glad that all of her tears soaked into the fabric of her father’s sweater. She’s also glad she got out of the way, because the next moment Mitch is up on his feet and pulling her into an energetic waltz. Zoey follows along like she knows it by heart while he croons.

_ Came in like a vision from the old west wind _

_ Like a bright new dream that I was steppin’ in _

_ I saw your face, I knew it was a sign _

_ And I still think about that moment  _

_ All of the time _

_ You know that I could never make this up _

_ I found the reason and I’m not givin’ it up _

_ I felt the fever, and I knew it was mine _

_ Oh, I’m gonna love you for a long time _

Zoey peeks over his shoulder and sees Maggie break apart from the chorus to sing a verse, beaming at them like it’s Zoey’s wedding day.

_ Oh, I never knew it _

_ Yeah you took me by surprise _

_ While I was gettin’ lost so deep inside your diamond eyes _

_ So many things that I still want to say _

_ And if devotion is a river _

_ Then I’m floating away _

The last thing Zoey expects is for Max to join in next— but then again, maybe it’s not the  _ very  _ last thing she expected. He steps into the room as well, smile always reshaping to fit his words and never faltering.

_ And in the mornin’ when you wrap me up _

_ I know that forever could never be enough _

_ I feel it in my body _

_ Know it in my mind, oh I _

_ I’m gonna love you for a long time _

_ I’m gonna love you for a long time _

_ I’m gonna love you for a long time _

_ For a long time _

Zoey’s eyes threaten to spill over, so she buries her face into Mitch’s shoulder again. When she dares to look back up, the music is gone and her dad is once again paralyzed in his spot on the couch. She hears a buzz and twists around to read his computer screen: “I love you too.”

She stands and finds her mom and Max lingering in the doorway. His grin is delicate in appearance but strong in meaning. “Ready to go?” he murmurs. Zoey can’t find words, so she nods and follows him out the door.

* * *

Max politely waits five minutes before trying to converse with her. “So,” he says, but Zoey is done keeping to herself what just happened.

“There was another heart song,” she tells him, kicking a pebble along the sidewalk. “It was... a lot.”

“Who sang it? Mitch, I’m guessing?” She nods. “Anyone else?”

“No,” Zoey answers, the lie slipping off her tongue too easily. “Just him. He... he got up and pulled me into this dance around the living room. It was like one of those ballroom dances you see in period dramas, except no fancy clothes and a lot more cheerful and— actually, it wasn’t like a ballroom dance at all, scratch that. But it was so sweet and lovely and...”

Max is already prepared for the fresh batch of tears. He accepts her into his arms, the same kind arms that comforted her crying nephew and embraced her mother. The same kind arms that are always ready for her to fall into. “I know,” he sighs into her hair, keeping her shuddering body close to his. “I know.”

For a while they stay like that, his own sniffles coming and going while hers gradually ebb away. The sunny day they started out with is also receding, dipping down beneath the skyline and leaving an inky sky and smattering of stars in its wake. It’s her who eventually urges them to carry on walking back into the heart of the city, ditching houses and lawns in favor of skyscrapers and cement. 

“I’ve thought a lot about them, you know,” Zoey says after some time. Next to her Max strolls along, hands in his pockets, dutifully listening. “The heart songs. They’re not always about the deeper emotions. Sometimes people sing about what’s right on the surface. About the feelings that are so clearly visible, but maybe someone needs a little...  _ push  _ to remind them of it. And for people like my dad, who literally can’t voice thoughts on their own, they’re given that voice through song.”

“Yeah, well, it seems like the most important feelings are the ones that get lyricized,” Max supplies. “Whether it’s deep down or not.”

Zoey comes to a halt, and Max goes a few more steps before realizing and turning to look at her. “You know, when you sang earlier today, you seemed... awfully cheerful for someone who’s getting divorced.”

“I’m getting divorced from my best friend, yes,” Max admits, wandering back to her. “But I’m still getting to spend time with her, am I not? So I’m grateful for that.”

Zoey bites her lip and glares at the dusky horizon behind him, the final spears of sunlight shooting up behind it. “How are you such a good person?” she whines. “Why are you friends with me?”

“Because I want to surround myself with  _ great _ people who make me good,” Max says, snorting at her unusual complaint. “And I... I like you a lot—”

“And my mom likes you. And my dad.”

“— right.” His head tips to the side, eyes narrowed as he absorbs her increasingly agitated demeanor. “Zo, what’s the matter?”

She fills her lungs and exhales in a sharp burst. Her eyes flit in every direction except his, until she has no choice but to take in her best friend’s baffled expression. “It’s just... if you like me so much, Max, why— why are you so eager to divorce me? Why is it, like, not even a big deal to you? Like it’s any other week? Like when you dumped Autumn and showed up to order a coffee from her the next damn day! What— what  _ is  _ it that makes it so...  _ okay  _ to you?”

Max knits his brows together. It’s like the last of the bronze light in his eyes leaks out when she says that, disappearing with the sun. “It’s _not_ okay to me, Zo, of course it’s not. It’s _divorce._ From _you._ And that sucks! I want this because I thought _you_ wanted this. It breaks my heart, but you know this isn’t what either of us _really_ wanted, and this isn’t how things should’ve happened for us. This isn’t how I wanted to be married to my best friend.” He shakes his head, closing the remaining distance between them. “I know we could have the whole rest of our lives, Zoey, and _god,_ I want to spend every last minute with you. We have so much time to get things right, and start over from our crazy mishap.” He bends down so they’re eye-level, his hands having somehow migrated from his pockets to hold her wrists. “And I’ve loved every single minute I’ve been your friend, so if that’s how it’ll be for the rest of time, then so be it. Even if it kills me, even if you end up with Simon, o- or—”

“Simon?” Zoey mutters. Hearing the name makes an unwanted memory spring to the forefront of her mind.

Ripped out of his speech, Max stumbles for a moment before responding. “Yeah, Simon. What... what about him?”

She hesitates, enjoying one last moment of Max being in the dark about what happened, then ventures forth. “Listen, I... I won’t end up with Simon. He and I actually, um... we kissed. A few weeks ago. A- and it wasn’t...” She winces, not able to bear seeing the mask of devastation she knows he must be wearing. “It wasn’t right. So I- I told him it wasn’t gonna happen.”

Max doesn’t say anything, or rather  _ won’t  _ say anything, and it’s pushing her over the edge. To be fair, she has yet to directly acknowledge all the syrup he just spilled out of his heart, but she can’t because she’s still drowning in it. And what a sweet, wonderful way to drown, but still—

Her phone rings. Max steps back to give her space, and he’s breathing heavily like he just ran up ten San Franciscan hills. Zoey fishes the device out of her purse and falters when she sees who is calling her. Before it can go to voicemail, she accepts the call and holds the phone up to her ear.

“Mom?”

“Zoey... it’s your father.” As soon as the dreaded words claw their way into Zoey’s ear— words she never,  _ ever  _ wanted to hear— an ambulance speeds past them, wailing in the direction they just came from. 


	10. soon you'll get better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max is literally the kindest human being ever. Zoey falls subtly more in love, and she's not against admitting that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay umm literally all the max headcanons in this chapter are courtesy of the discord folks. bless y'all for the lovely discussion that fills the hole in my heart between episodes.
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are much appreciated. my brain literally short circuits at each and every one.
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "soon you'll get better" by taylor swift.

Max has never run this fast in his life.

They made it all the way out of the neighborhood, but in an instant he and Zoey have turned around and are sprinting back the way they came. Who knew their playful run through the city streets earlier would end up being practice for this?

Close behind him, Max can hear Zoey’s shallow, panicked breaths, broken up frequently by roaring sobs. Hearing that only makes him run faster. A moment ago his mind was still reeling with the new knowledge that Zoey kissed Simon. Or rather, Simon kissed Zoey. Actually, he isn’t totally sure who kissed who, but either way, the fact isn’t entirely unwelcome because of the bottom line: Zoey turned Simon down.

But now, Max can’t bring himself to think about that, because whatever is happening back at her parents’ house is far more important than the mess between them. Not giving himself time to reconsider, Max thrusts out one hand behind himself, wiggling his fingers as an invitation for Zoey to grab on. To his utter delight, he feels her hand fold into his after a beat. There is no way in hell Zoey will miss any possible final moments with Mitch. Not if Max has a say in it.

After a brisk and stressful five minutes of Max pulling her along, they arrive back at the Clarkes’ house just in time to see paramedics loading Mitch into the back of the same ambulance that passed them. Zoey’s feet are suddenly glued to the ground, and Max nearly yanks his own arm out of its socket when she stops. She lets go of his hand so she can wrap her arms around herself in a pitiful hug. Max can’t even be upset about losing her touch because the way she looks right now is absolutely killing him. 

His eyes move from Zoey, standing frozen with the ambulance’s red lights flashing in her eyes and spangled in her hair, over to the stretcher carefully being wheeled down the sidewalk. It does not take a medical degree to see that Mitch is in poor shape; he looks out of it, at best asleep and at worst... well, Max doesn’t want to contemplate that. There’s a breathing tube inserted and one of the paramedics is methodically squeezing an ambu bag to keep oxygen flowing.  _ Oh, god.  _ Max barely bites back a wail of despair. If  _ he  _ feels this terrible, he can’t imagine how Zoey is feeling.

David walks up to them, face grim. Just behind him, Max can see Emily standing by their car at the curb, rocking the baby back and forth in an attempt to soothe him before strapping him into his carseat. The volume of Zach’s screams could rival the ambulance’s siren, which has luckily been shut off at the moment.

Zoey’s brother starts to talk, but before he can explain Zoey fixes him with a hollow stare. “What... what happened?” she croaks. Her words are so flat they don’t even sound like a question.

“He, um... he started coughing really bad, like,  _ minutes  _ after you guys left. Then he passed out. They think his lungs might be filled with fluid from not moving around, and that it’s just— well, built up over time.” David covers his face with one hand, dragging it slowly over his ragged stubble. The exhaustion in his eyes is more evident now than before, Max realizes. “He— he wasn’t breathing on his own, so... they had to intubate him.” Just then, the ambulance’s siren fires up again, and it sets off down the street. David turns slowly to watch it go, then looks back at them. “Listen, I’m gonna drop Em and Zach at home, then I’ll meet you guys at the hospital.” He produces a pair of keys from his pocket which Max vaguely recognizes as the keys to Maggie’s Volvo. “You guys just take Mom’s car, she won’t mind because obviously she’s riding in with him and Howie.” 

David tosses the keys and Max is the one who catches them because Zoey doesn’t even try to make a move. Then her brother jogs back over to his wife and son, leaving Max and Zoey standing speechless on the front lawn. All at once, the commotion is over.

Max turns to Zoey and tries to offer her the keys, but she shakes her head and pushes them back towards him. “No, I- I can’t drive right now, I’m not at all in the right mindspace.” Her eyes are round and pleading when she glances up at him. “Please, Max, if— if you don’t mind, I really just want you to take me there.” She looks as if she might say more, but whatever it is trails off into another sob instead.

“Of course,” he says immediately. “You know I don’t mind at all, Zo, I...” But words fail him too, so Max gives up on talking and lets Zoey lead him around to the garage. Numbly she punches in the keycode to open the door, and within seconds they’re buckled in the car and taking off towards what might be Max’s least favorite building in San Francisco.

The ride is tense and silent, the air inside the SUV charged with emotion that stings Max’s skin like static electricity. Each minute ticks by like an hour, so Max keeps watching the road ahead like a hawk in the hopes it will make time feel faster. It doesn’t help, though, and neither does hearing Zoey’s muted crying in the seat next to him. It’s clear that she is trying to suppress the tears, but that won’t fly for Max. It is true he’s really only ever seen Zoey cry over sad movies (and once when she was on her period and cried to him over FaceTime about the closest grocery store being out of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey), but that doesn’t at all mean she should hide her feelings around him. Max is the expert of conceal, don’t feel and slow it down, tone it down (or, at least, he used to be pre-earthquake-induced musical powers), and he knows how much it sucks to do that. There’s no reason Zoey should be subjected to it.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, coasting neatly through a yellow light because he’ll be damned if a single minute goes to waste, “Zoey, you can let it out. I know it’s... it’s...” But nothing in the English language is suitable for this. This is Mitch Clarke he’s talking about, the guy he used to get In-N-Out chocolate shakes with every other Saturday, the man who took Max aside the second time he met him and said,  _ “If things between you and Zoey ever go beyond friendship, I better be the first one to know... that way I can start planning the celebration.”  _ He’s the person who is part of the reason Max’s favorite human in the whole world exists, and for that Max could never thank Mitch enough.

At the edge of his vision, he can glimpse Zoey looking at him, a million miles away through a haze of tears. She’s notorious for being emotionally distant, but Max doesn’t want her to feel like she has to be.

“Mitch is... you know, he’s like the father I never got to have,” Max finally chokes out. He wipes under his eyes, not willing to let tears obstruct his vision just yet because crashing Maggie’s really nice car would be yet another tragedy. “And I love him, Zo. I really do. I’m...” He bites his lip until he tastes copper. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” she hiccups. “Th- thank you, Max.” And now Zoey is full-on weeping. Max wants nothing more than to climb over to the passenger side and hug her until his shirt absorbs all her tears. But he can’t, so he settles for reaching out a comforting hand. This time without an ounce of hesitation, she accepts it, pulling his hand onto her lap and squeezing it as she bends forward, head between her knees.

They make it to the hospital in record time, apparently, because when Max risks a glance at the clock on the dashboard, only eleven minutes have passed. He finds what he hopes is a legal spot in a parking garage, then hops out and bustles around to the other side to open Zoey’s door as if he’s her chauffeur. But she’s already out of the car too, having hunted through the console for a half-empty pack of tissues. She grips the package tightly while they hustle up to the emergency room entrance, the plastic crinkling miserably in her hands. The entire time Max keeps a protective arm around her shoulders.

They find David pacing just inside. He stops when he notices them, and Max sets aside his astonishment that he somehow beat them here and listens instead. “They think it’s pneumonia,” he tells them, cutting right to the chase. “They’re going to try antibiotics, but...” 

The dreaded  _ but.  _ They all know what that means.  _ But it might not work.  _ The infection might not respond to the medicine when there’s already a whole cocktail of other drugs in his system. 

Zoey continues hugging herself, but doesn’t shrug off Max’s arm either. “I- I wanna go see him,” she mumbles.

David sets his hands on his hips and sighs. He looks unbelievably tired. “Mom’s back there with him now. He’s still knocked out, they’re saying it’s better if—”

“I wanna go see him,” she repeats. Her voice and movements are stiff and robotic, her bloodshot eyes staring straight ahead down a busy hallway. David and Max share a look of understanding. Even if Mitch isn’t awake, he’s at least still alive right this minute, and right this minute could be the last possible minute to say goodbye. Max feels sick, like there’s a swarm of bees in his stomach. Desperately he scrapes through his brain for the last thing he said to Mitch before he and Zoey left the house not even a half-hour ago. Then it hits him: he said  _ See you soon.  _ But he never meant  _ this  _ soon.

“Okay,” David concedes, gaze dropping back to his sister’s face. Zoey steps forward, Max’s arm falling limply when he doesn’t move with her. David takes her up to the front desk, where she signs in and is then directed by a nurse down one of the many sterile white corridors. Max’s eyes don’t leave her back until she’s turned out of sight.

Max chooses a seat in the waiting room. As expected, it’s hard and plastic and uncomfortable, so Max shoulders off his jacket and tucks it behind his back, because he plans to be here for as long as he’s wanted. To get his mind off the devastation, he leans forward and stares absently at a window, which offers nothing but a view of a dark parking lot. The sun set a while ago now, so everything outside has been plunged into deep darkness, which sets the mood perfectly. Max plants his elbows on his knees, focusing on the window and the distant hum of a vending machine around the corner.

After a few minutes, David approaches him holding two styrofoam cups. He hands one to Max with a grin that turns out more like a grimace. “Coffee,” he explains. “Sorry, uh. I wasn’t sure how you like it, so I kept it black.”

“Black is fine, thank you,” Max murmurs, lips already perched on the edge of the cup. He flips up the cheap plastic lid and takes a sip. It nearly scalds the roof of his mouth, but the bite of discomfort drags him out of his dizzying numbness. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, both nursing the watered-down coffee like they’re sitting at a bar drowning their woes in glasses of whiskey. “Hey, um,” Max pipes up after some time. “Listen, if you think... if you don’t want me here invading family stuff, I- I can go.” He mainly says it to be polite, because the last thing he wants is for Zoey to emerge from her dad’s room and find that Max isn’t waiting for her.

David cuts him off with a dull chuckle. “You kidding? You’re basically part of the family, man. I mean... legally, you  _ are  _ my brother-in-law, but even if you weren’t accidentally married to my sister, you’d still be a Clarke.” He meets Max’s eyes, face sobering when the weight of their situation quickly settles back on their shoulders. “And even if I hated your guts, I’d still want you to stay here. For Zoey. She needs you.”

“Just as much as I need her,” Max says.

* * *

Eventually Max quits paying attention to the time on his phone. Time makes things feel too real. It’s also a pressing reminder that both he and Zoey are still expected to show up to work tomorrow morning. He’s debating calling in for both of them when he hears David grunt a soft “Hey.” 

Max looks up and there she is, framed at the end of the hallway, mascara smudged almost all the way to her neck. Zoey starts shuffling in their direction, but to Max’s surprise, she begins to sing as she walks. Unlike the other two times he witnessed her unintended performances, this one has no dance moves. She just takes each step without a sense of hurry, her movements fluid, head down and eyes closed. Max scoots to the edge of his chair and listens attentively to the lyrics.

_ The buttons of my coat were tangled in my hair _

_ In doctor’s office lighting, I didn’t tell you I was scared _

_ That was the first time we were there _

_ Holy orange bottles, each night, I pray to you _

_ Desperate people find faith, so now I pray to Jesus too _

_ And I say to you... _

_ Ooh-ah _

_ Soon, you’ll get better _

_ Ooh-ah _

_ Soon, you’ll get better _

_ Ooh-ah _

_ You’ll get better soon _

_ ‘Cause you have to _

Zoey’s voice breaks several times, raw and free of any instrumental backup. But it especially crumbles on the last line, nearly to the point of being inaudible. She steps off the stark white linoleum into the carpeted waiting area, arms dangling loosely at her sides.

_ I know delusion when I see it in the mirror _

_ You like the nicer nurses, you make the best of a bad deal _

_ I just pretend it isn’t real _

_ I’ll paint the kitchen neon, I’ll brighten up the sky _

_ I know I’ll never get it, there’s not a day that I won’t try _

_ And I say to you... _

_ Ooh-ah _

_ Soon, you’ll get better _

_ Ooh-ah _

_ Soon, you’ll get better _

_ Ooh-ah _

_ You’ll get better soon _

_ ‘Cause you have to _

She pauses in front of Max and David, still refusing to make any eye contact. Now that she’s up close, Max can see the gleam of fresh tears coating her cheeks. Her hair is disheveled, her favorite jean jacket wrinkled. Without thinking, Max opens up his arms and she seats herself on his thigh, curling into him while continuing to sing brokenly.

_ And I hate to make this all about me _

_ But who am I supposed to talk to? _

_ What am I supposed to do _

_ If there’s no you? _

_ This won’t go back to normal, if it ever was _

_ It’s been years of hoping, and I keep saying it because _

_ ‘Cause I have to _

Max brings her as close as possible, and she nestles her face into his chest. He sets his chin on top of her head, stroking her back affectionately as she shudders out a sob around one last set of lyrics.  _ “Ooh, ah,”  _ she sniffles, muffled by his shirt.  _ “Soon, you’ll...”  _ But she can no longer finish the line, because her body is wracked with despair. Max closes his eyes and doesn’t stop holding her.

Then, abruptly, he falls forward and he blinks rapidly, realizing she isn’t sitting on his lap anymore. Stunned, he glances back where she came from and it becomes obvious that she never was. In reality, Zoey is only just walking out of the hallway, and when she reaches Max and David she wipes her nose and mutters, “He’s on life support.”

“Zoey,” David starts, but she interrupts.

“Can someone take me home? Please.” Somewhere along the way she found a new collection of tissues to bunch up in her hands, and now she holds them up to her face and keeps them there.

“Yeah,” Max breathes, getting to his feet and throwing away his coffee cup. He rests a hand on the small of her back and guides her to the exit, throwing one more look over his shoulder at David, who mouths “Thank you” and makes the phone symbol next to his ear, adding “I’ll call with updates.” Max gives him a curt nod, then turns forward again for their trek to the car.

* * *

Zoey can hardly believe it’s still the same 24-hour window as this morning. This morning, she woke up on the right side of the bed, had a good hair day, put on her favorite jean jacket. She didn’t burn her toast for once, and the scrambled eggs she made had just the right amount of seasoning. She sang along with the Lizzo song Mo was blasting from his apartment (not that she would ever let him know that) and at work she greeted Tobin and Leif’s typical dubious looks with a giant smile. She hadn’t even let the meeting with the divorce attorney get her down, because Max was still the same wonderful Max as always, complications aside.

Now she feels almost ashamed for daring to enjoy this day at all. Today is the day her father was put on what will likely be his deathbed, and she can’t believe she ever allowed herself to smile on this awful day.

David must’ve granted car permissions to Max for the time being, because they don’t return to her parents’ house to drop off her mom’s car. Not that Zoey would’ve noticed a transfer between Maggie’s SUV and a Lyft; hell, Max could drive off the face of the planet and she doubts she would bat an eyelash at it. She makes sure to stay just aware enough to tell him, “I don’t know if I can go home tonight.”

Max peers over at her, face periodically dappled golden from the streetlights they pass. “Tell me what you want to do, Zo. I’m here for you.”

She idly wipes a smudge off the window, watching the sleeping city pass outside. “I... I don’t wanna be alone,” she mumbles. “Do you think...” Zoey pauses, realizing potential implications that could arise if she insists on being with him tonight. She’s never stayed over at Max’s apartment before, but then again, this is  _ Max.  _ The worst thing that could happen is they face a little awkwardness tomorrow morning. She knows at some point they’ll have to resume the conversation that was put on hold by her mom’s call, but that definitely won’t happen tonight.

“Zoey?” Max asks softly, and she sits up, guiltily realizing she’ll have him driving aimlessly all night if she doesn’t provide a destination.

“Can I— can I stay over at your place?” she says. “If it’s too much trouble, it’s fine, but—”

“Shh. Of course it’s no trouble, it’s  _ you,”  _ Max says, and within five minutes they’re pulling up outside his super nice apartment building. Zoey has always been a bit envious of his fancier digs, but with all the turmoil going on in her mind right now, she doesn’t have much room for jealousy. She blocks out everything else besides Max while he parks, a doorman lets them in, and they ride up in the elevator. Little conversation is necessary, because even if they didn’t know each other like the backs of their hands, Zoey is sure she’s giving off some very unapproachable vibes at the moment.

Max’s key clicks quietly in the door, which falls open to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows that provide a better view of the city than Zoey could ever dream of getting in her apartment, not even if she stood on her tiptoes. She’s familiar with Max’s place, of course, but it still stuns her each time she walks in. If it were on the top floor, it could definitely be considered a penthouse. His kitchen alone is the size of her entire apartment, and the baby grand piano tucked in a corner of the living room gives off a sense of grandeur Zoey couldn’t ever hope to duplicate, though she can appreciate it.

She bends down to give Max’s cat a pat on the head, watching her friend gather pillows and blankets from a linen closet and bring them to the sofa. She expects this to be her sanctuary for the night, so she stops cuddling the cat to help him make the sofa bed. He tries to wave her off, but Zoey says “No, it’s the least I can do” and helps him tug the sheets under the corners of the thin mattress. Once they’re done, she perches herself at the foot of the bed and starts to settle in, only to look up and discover Max standing a few feet away with a smirk.

“What?”

“Zoey, you are  _ not  _ sleeping on this sofa bed. I can guarantee you that it isn’t comfortable in the slightest, and after the night you’ve had I can  _ also  _ guarantee that you do not need to be sleeping on a cardboard mattress.” He lifts a hand and points toward the short hall leading to his room. “You’re sleeping in my bed, and I’ll be out here. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Sheets are fresh and clean, I just replaced them this morning. Bathroom is all yours.”

“Max,” she says, eyes already welling up again. “You’ve done so much for me tonight, I really don’t mind sacrificing back support for a night. I just want this day to be over, and I doubt I’ll be getting much sleep anyway. Please.” And she gestures at his room.

“I,” Max says, swiveling around the end of the couch and falling back onto the sofa bed, which gives a squeaky bounce, “refuse to take no for an answer. Please, Zo, take my bed.”

She sighs and collapses next to him, flipping onto her side so she can have a better view (not of the twinkling city lights through the windows— Max’s face is much better). “What did I do to deserve you?”

Max yawns, apparently too sleepy for answers. “Mmm,” he grunts, giving her a gentle nudge in the arm. “Go to bed.”

His eyes are slitted, and Zoey can feel her own eyelids starting to droop as well. “I will,” she hums, trying to sit back up despite her muscles feeling like lead. “Just let me—” But sleep takes her suddenly, coaxing her head back onto the mattress and willing her exhausted bones to go limp. Zoey gives in without a further peep, joining Max in the sweet relief of being dead to the world for a couple hours.

* * *

When Zoey wakes the next morning, it doesn’t take long for the events of last night to come rushing back. She waits a while before opening her eyes, remembering that the last thing she saw before falling asleep was Max’s face. But when she finally makes herself look, the space beside her on the bed is occupied only by the cat. The wrinkled blanket underneath him is the sole indication that Max was ever there, breathing and dreaming inches away from her.

She pulls herself into a sitting position, glancing around the deserted apartment. Max is nowhere to be found, though she can hear something sizzling on the stove in the kitchen. Zoey moves off the sofa bed, groaning softly when dazzling sunlight slices through the open glass to hit her directly in the eyes. 

Padding over to the large kitchen island, Zoey picks up her phone from the counter and, surprisingly, finds nothing but one missed call from David. Her lock screen also reminds her that it’s seven o’clock on a Thursday morning, but work is certainly on the back burner for her right now. Fear urges her to call David back right away, but instinct steals her attention towards whatever’s cooking in the skillet. It smells faintly fried, like hot oil and egg.

Suddenly Max appears from around the corner, dressed in a crisp button down to replace the wrinkled one he dozed off in last night. He steps up to the stove, turns down the heat, and turns to face her with a guarded smile. “Good morning, Zo. Before you say anything, I called Joan and told her what happened, so you’re not going into work today.”

Zoey could faint in relief. “You’re amazing. Thank you.”

“But she still wants me to show up and— her words, not mine— ‘pick up the slack,’ so.” He shrugs and shifts his attention back to the skillet. “Thought I’d try my hand at comfort food, but you know I’m just as much a disaster chef as you are, so I’m making the only thing I know.”

Zoey leans over the counter and finally catches a glimpse of what’s in the pan. “Latkes in April?”

“Yes, well, no. Close, though. I wanted to make latkes, but I didn’t have all the ingredients, so I hope cheesy frozen hash browns will do.” He pokes at the food with a spatula and shoots her a hopeful grin.

“That sounds awesome, Max. It reminds me of when you made latkes for my birthday that one year, and we put all those weird toppings on them. Remember?” She chuckles when he nods eagerly, recognition lighting up his gaze. Zoey goes around the island so she can give him a stress-melting hug. “Thank you,” she mumbles again into his chest, careful not to crease his shirt too much.

When they separate, however, he has a chillingly serious expression on his face. Zoey frowns, wondering what’s wrong, but then all he says is, “Just for the record, applesauce is  _ not  _ a weird topping.”

“Okay, okay, fair enough,” she snorts, flicking his nose. He tries to get her back, but she shrieks and ducks out of his reach. For one brief, idyllic moment, Zoey forgets about the horror of last night. She soaks in this moment in the glittering morning sunshine, Max chasing her in circles around the island in his gorgeous apartment, the cat wrapping his tail around their feet trying to trip them up, the first laugh in several hours bursting out of her lungs. It’s not the cat, though, that ends up bringing Zoey toppling to the floor; it’s a single thought:  _ I could live like this, with him, forever.  _

She lets out a squeak and tumbles to the hardwood. Max backtracks instantly, careening around the far end of the counter to slide into a crouch next to her. “Oh my god, Zo, are you alright? Do you need any ice?”

Zoey thinks she might’ve fallen on her one finger wrong, if the throbbing pain in her right hand is any clue. “I’m fine,” she spits out automatically, struggling to prop herself on her elbows at the same time he hooks both hands under her arms to help her up. Both are startled by each other’s movement, and both of them freeze while waiting to see what the other will do. But nothing is more mind-boggling than when Zoey slowly tilts her head back and finds that his face is mere centimeters from her own. Her eyes flicker down to that pretty mouth of his. She expects one of two things to happen, and sure enough one of them does. With his lips one poor decision away from touching hers, Max starts singing.


	11. faster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoey goes through a rollercoaster of emotions. Max really just does that to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait! i'm trying to be a little easier on myself when it comes to cranking out these chapters, because sometimes writing really makes an entire day go by in a flash. i'm thinking this fic will end at 15 chapters, give or take. don't quote me on that, but it is starting to wind down.
> 
> this chapter kinda lurches from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other. it gets super depressing and super cheesy. just like the most recent episode, actually. 1x10 really was something, huh? phew. i will say angry!zoey is very intriguing and i would be interested in writing her somehow. 
> 
> please note that oliver the cat is not owned by me. (he's owned by max! jk jk, he's property of the discord headcanon crew.) and finally, kudos and comments are much appreciated, as always <3
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "faster" by matt nathanson, "stand up" by one direction, and "crazy" by shawn mendes.

_“You’re so delicious,”_ Max hums, jumping in with the instrumentals now filling his apartment.

Knowing it’s impossible to interrupt him, Zoey balks and squeaks, “I’m so _what?”_

To her dismay, he leans away from her lips and hops to his feet, unwittingly twirling deeper into the musical number. _“You’re so... soft,”_ he goes on while tracing a path around the kitchen island as if they’ve resumed their chase. _“Sweet on the tip of my tongue.”_

“Am I?” Hesitantly Zoey touches a few fingers to her mouth. Somehow it’s already tingling as if they’ve kissed, as if it _knows_ what’s coming. Nothing has been sealed yet, and still here Max is, singing his heart out about the flavor of Zoey, and if his kindness last night and this morning haven’t made her feel better enough, _this_ sure as hell is.

_You taste like sunlight_

_And strawberry bubble gum_

_You bite my lip_

_You spike my blood_

_You make my heart beat faster_

Max pauses at the stove, turning off the heat and dumping the finished hash browns onto a plate which he sends spinning across the island. Zoey scrambles to her feet, stomach rumbling at the sight of the food. Before she can lift her fork and take a bite, Max appears right beside her with a first aid kit. He picks up her wounded hand and examines her sore finger, his singing never ceasing.

_Own me, you own_

_You rattle my bones_

_You turn me over and over_

_Till I can’t control myself_

_Make me a liar_

_One big disaster_

_You make my heart beat faster_

He lets go of her hand and pirouettes toward the door. Zoey holds her hand up to her face and admires the cute little makeshift splint he arranged on her finger. Then she turns, seating herself on one of the bar stools and watching as he slides on his jacket and sneaks a glance into a mirror, smoothing over his hair.

_‘Cause I jump back, I crash, I crawl_

_I beg, I steal, I follow you_

_Yeah, you own me_

_And you make my heart beat faster_

_Faster, faster_

_I can’t get enough_

Zoey could sing the same to him, because her heart is currently slamming in her chest. She observes him going through his usual morning routine, putting on his shoes and grabbing his bag with a little extra pep in his step. Max then swings the door open, peers one last time over his shoulder at her with a fond smile, and exits, letting the door shut softly behind him the same second the music ends.

Zoey stares at the closed door, unsure what just happened. Was this seriously the rarer type of heart song that passes in real time? Panic blooms in her chest. He can’t just leave like _that!_ She won’t allow it. Zoey jumps off the stool, moving carefully on socked feet to avoid another unfortunate tumble and finger injury.

She approaches the door with caution as if Max might burst back through it at any second. She can’t believe this wasn’t just another three-second zone-out moment; whatever Max actually said to her during the past few minutes, she completely missed it. What if he said something important?

Suddenly, the door opens again and Max reappears, flashing that lopsided grin when his eyes land on her. And that’s when Zoey realizes it’s _her_ who has something important to say— or rather, _do._

“Hey, Zo, I just forgot my phone—”

Max never gets a chance to finish that sentence, because in a split second Zoey has taken his face in her hands and brought his lips down to meet hers, effectively snatching all his breath away. He responds with matching ardor, returning the kiss like it’s something they have practiced for ages. But he makes confused little grunts in between each breath, and eventually his bewilderment gets the better of him and he pulls away. She clings on to his mouth until the last possible second, her neck practically stretching like a giraffe’s to accommodate his height.

“Zoey... what...” he gasps. “What in the world was _that_ about?”

She can’t hide the smirk that appears upon seeing the deep blush extending from his ears to his collarbone. Instead of giving him a direct answer (because a direct answer is the _last_ thing she could think up right now), she asks, “So, uh, did I taste like sunlight? Or strawberry bubblegum, maybe?”

Max furrows his brow, peering down at her as if she’s definitely lost her mind this time. “What are you— oh.” He sighs and lowers his head, but doesn’t remove his hands from her arms. “I just sang to you, didn’t I? Because that would explain a lot.”

Zoey is taken aback by his apparent disappointment. “Yes...” she tells him. “What’s wrong with that?”

He only lifts his eyes back up to meet hers. “Nothing, exactly, it’s just... I’d rather the _actual_ Max tell you about his feelings, not the Max in your head.”

“But the Max in my head _is_ you,” she insists, sliding his hands down her sleeves until their fingers are intertwined. They’re both careful to favor her wounded digit. “My power shows people’s true feelings, so it is _very_ real.”

He frees one hand from hers so he can hold the side of her face. She leans into the touch, his warmth seeping into her cheek and adding to her blush. “Yeah, but I’m participating unintentionally. I still can’t _really_ be a part of it, can I? At least not most of the time. Unless it’s you singing.”

Zoey frowns. “Did I... sing to you again recently?”

He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Um, last night. Not about us, though, about...” He trails off, and that tells her all she needs to know. 

“Right,” she mumbles. “I don’t know _why_ that keeps happening.”

“It’s okay. You’re a wonderful singer.”

Zoey rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. The last time I sang in the shower, I shattered my bathroom mirror. _You,_ on the other hand... wow.”

Max leans in close to her again, brushing their noses together. He’s still cradling one side of her face, his thumb stroking her jaw bone. “Don’t say that about yourself, I love your voice,” he tells her, and doesn’t pause to give her any room to object, “and thank you. So my singing voice is good enough to warrant a kiss that I’ve been waiting for as long as I’ve known you?”

“Definitely,” she agrees, pressing their foreheads together. “But believe me, Max, you don’t need an amazing voice to make me love you.”

The smirk on his face slips off, and that’s when the weight of her words sinks in. Max blinks rapidly, bashful and subdued, and suddenly he’s the brand-new college graduate she met five years ago again, a wide-eyed friendly stranger just begging to become a friend. “You love me?” he asks softly. Zoey hesitates long enough for him to squeeze in a second heart-twisting question: “Or do you love the _idea_ of me?”

“No, I love _you,_ Max,” she answers automatically. “You— you manage to make me feel so _happy,_ even during one of the worst times of my life. And I don’t know how you do it, but I won’t question it because the most important thing is that you’re _you._ You own my heart, completely and utterly.” Zoey reaches a hand up to his chin, tilting his head upward. “And, honestly, I think you’ve owned it for longer than I’ve known. And then when I _did_ realize it, I was... terrified. Timing was _not_ on our side, and it continues not to be. Part of me was scared to gamble our friendship to become something more, but now... I don’t think it’s a gamble at all.”

“You don’t?” Her heart swells when he also leans into her touch. Now their embrace is perfectly mirrored, equally affectionate on both sides. Zoey thinks she wouldn’t mind if for the rest of her life, she only sees Max instead of herself whenever she looks into a mirror.

She nods like a bobblehead, trying to control the lump in her throat. “I think it took accidentally marrying you to realize it,” she tells him around a laugh. “As ridiculous as that sounds. I mean, we woke up one morning, suddenly _married,_ and... we were okay. We kept living our lives, we continued being best friends, we”— she takes the pair of their hands that are joined and lifts them upward— “we declared our wedding rings as _friendship_ rings too, and yes, that was just postponing the truth, but that’s _us._ Awkward, geeky, sensitive, _us._ And Max, _every_ second I’ve spent being your best friend has been better than the last. My dad told me once that when I find the person I’m going to be with forever, I should make sure I can call them my best friend, too. I- I think I’m ready now. I think I owe it to him to heed his advice.” Zoey takes a steadying breath, diving deep into the brown eyes that have only ever adored her. “And... I don’t know about you, but I want my lover and my best friend to be the same person.”

Max drops his bag to the floor and seizes her, guiding her lips back onto his. They meet once, then twice, while hands roam, but Zoey can’t help breaking it to giggle, “You didn’t let me finish my thought, you doof.”

“Okay,” he breathes against her mouth. “Sorry. Please finish.”

“Actually, on second thought,” Zoey whispers, cradling his face in her hands, “I think you get the picture.” Then she kisses him again, deepening it exponentially compared to the little pecks and nibbles from before. Even with her eyes closed, she can sense him kicking off his shoes and gently nudging her over to the sofa bed— the second bed they’ve now innocently shared. Just to keep him on his toes (because Flirty Zoey is programmed a little differently than Regular Zoey), she spins them around at the last second so that when they fall onto the thin mattress, she’s on top of him. Max gives a muffled grunt of surprise but makes no further protest, curling his thumbs in the belt loops on her pants to pull her closer. Zoey settles into their impromptu embrace, straddling him and pressing her knees into the blankets (she swears this mattress was much more comfy when she was bone-tired last night; now the box springs poke through it painfully). They make out at a steady pace, reading each other’s cues and keeping a leash on their eagerness.

Of course, David chooses this moment to call again. Over on the kitchen island, her phone buzzes, emitting a harsh ringtone handpicked by David himself _(“This way it’ll be impossible to ignore me, Stinkyface.”)._ A fresh wave of reality crashes over them, dragging Zoey into the riptide. She sits up abruptly, freezing when Max’s hands hug her hips and dig in. “Max,” she whines, and suddenly she’s fought her way out of the riptide, because the sight below her can’t possibly be reality. Never in her life would she imagine having this vantage point: Max Richman laid out underneath her on a bed, hair tousled just so, button down thoroughly wrinkled, California sunshine spilling over his face and puddling in his eyes. Zoey shakes herself out of her trance and tries to free herself. “Max, really. I— I should probably get that.”

He sighs and lets her go, arms dropping limply. Zoey untangles herself from him and the blankets, flying over to the counter and retrieving the screaming device. She gets her hands on it just in time, however, to see it quit ringing. David must’ve given up on her. It can’t be that big of a deal if he isn’t bothering to leave a message... right? Zoey sighs, deciding she’ll call him back in another minute if he doesn’t first.

Max sits up and bows his head to evade any potentially murderous glares sent his way. “Crap. I’m sorry, Zo. This— this was— um.” He swallows hard, throat bobbing. A shaky hand crawls through his hair as he hops to his feet. “Unplanned. Very unplanned. But that’s—” His eyes dart over to where Zoey is standing, phone still in hand, an amused slant to her brow. “That’s not... not a bad thing?”

“I would hope not,” she replies. “It’s your own fault, anyway, for being so irresistible.”

Realizing he’s not in trouble, his shoulders relax. “Oh, yeah? Right back at ya.” Max moves back over to the door, shoving on his shoes deliberately slow to prolong the time he spends here rather than at SPRQ Point. Despite moving slower than a snail chugging molasses, he remarks, “I’m definitely gonna be late for work now.”

“Better to show up late than never, I guess,” Zoey says. She resumes her seat on one of the stools, shoveling a few forkfuls of hash browns into her mouth. Just because she was recently fed in _one_ way doesn’t mean she’s not still hungry for actual food.

Max shuffles up to her, throwing his bag back over his shoulder. “You know, I could just... never show up.” He wraps his arms around her from behind, and like it’s second nature she leans back and melts into his broad chest. “I can stay here all day with you, lounge around, murder you in _Mario Kart...”_

“That’s all we would be doing?” (Actually, that sounds pretty great. Amazing, even. Unlike other friendships, theirs has yet to be obliterated by the dreaded blue shell.)

He steps to her left and she cranes her neck to peer up at him. “Whatever it takes to make things okay,” he says earnestly, rubbing her back. “Just know that I’m your man.”

Zoey’s eyes water, and she looks away again, suddenly shy as if they weren’t just tying their tongues together into a knot. “Well, thanks for being my man, Max. It means a lot.”

“Of course,” he says. “Now finish your hash browns before they get cold.” Max buries a kiss in her stubbornly messy hair, then heads for the door for the second time in an eventful morning. “Make yourself at home. I laid out some clothes you can borrow, if— if that’s not too weird. Since I know you only have what you wore yesterday, which, um... still looks great, by the way. Even after you slept in it.”

Zoey looks down at yesterday’s slacks and sweater, both significantly rumpled after serving an unintended stint as pajamas. Then she glances back at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Max scratches behind his head. “Really.” He opens the door.

“Wait!” Zoey says. It comes out louder than she intended, definitely startling him, but he waits. She floats up to him, smiles fondly, and flips his shirt collar back down where it had been turned inside-out during their... umm... “wrestling match.” She makes sure her fingers brush his neck and linger there, feeding on his warmth.

Then, just because she can, she kisses him one more time.

* * *

Zoey is pretty sure she will spend the entire rest of her life indebted to Max Richman. However much he insists she doesn’t owe him a thing, Zoey knows that love isn’t currency. The least she could do is stop feeling bad about all he does for her and start appreciating and mutualizing the favors instead. So while she spends the day in his incredible luxury apartment, relishing in the most relaxing Thursday afternoon she’s had in ages (which isn’t saying much), Zoey makes sure to help out a little with chores. She finds herself sweeping and mopping, washing windows and polishing furniture, feeding the cat and folding up the sofa bed. All this activity helps keep her mind off her dad’s condition, too, so Zoey doesn’t mind doing some good if it can ease her mind in more ways than one.

Before all that, though, she calls David back. He picks up on the first ring. “Oh, so you haven’t been abducted by aliens?” he grumbles in lieu of a friendly greeting.

Zoey puts her phone on speaker and sets it aside while she washes and dries her breakfast dishes. “You only called me twice,” she retorts, then wisely thinks to adjust her tone. “I- I’m sorry, I’ve been... distracted. I think I kind of wanted to forget everything for a little while. But that was selfish, and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just, I dunno, maybe shoot me a text or something next time? Even a thumbs-up emoji with the wrong skin tone would have sufficed.”

“I am _not_ that pale, Dave.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, voice crackling irritably over the line. “We all know Clarkes don’t tan, especially not you. Your options are, like, ghostly white or fire engine red.”

Zoey wishes her brother could see her, because she puts on a _spectacular_ show of rolling her eyes. If anything, she’s at least grateful David still has half the mood to tease her. Maybe it means everything hasn’t gone to hell just yet. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“So anyway,” David says, thankfully humoring her and changing the subject. “How’s Max holding up this morning?”

Oh. So he’s not done being a brother (or rather, a _bother)_ quite yet. Zoey’s train of thought rolls to a halt, its steam obscuring logic for a moment. _How’s Max holding up—? I mean, I kind of held him up against his front door for a minute or two..._ Flushing, Zoey clears her throat and mumbles, “He’s good, and, um, how do you know I’m at his place?”

“Believe me. I know.” David hesitates, then finally gives her the report. “Listen, Zoey. About Dad... he’s hanging in there for now. It took me two hours to convince Mom to let me drive her home last night. She was hellbent on sleeping in the plastic chair next to his bed overnight, but I wasn’t about to let that happen. When I talked to the doctors before we left, they said it’s... it’s not likely that he’ll wake up again.”

Zoey has no idea what to say to that. What _can_ she say? “Oh,” she says. The single word drops like a stone. She sits down heavily on the sofa and presses a hand to her forehead.

“It’s okay. I know. It’s... it’s not easy, and it’s not supposed to be. I—”

“I’ll be there tonight,” Zoey interrupts, swallowing thickly. “At the hospital. I wanna be with him.”

Her mind made up, Zoey only stays on the phone with David for a minute longer. When they hang up, she launches her phone across the room. It skitters across the ottoman, soars over the back of an armchair, and comes to a rest at the edge of the carpet, miraculously unharmed. 

It takes her way too long to talk herself into seeing what clothes Max has set aside for her. Sure, she has the keys to her mom’s car and could theoretically stop by her apartment and get a change of clothes, but at the same time... this is too tempting an offer to pass up.

She steps into the bathroom, the cat hopping on the counter next to the neatly-folded outfit Max left for her. Zoey moves in slow motion, picking up the t-shirt on top— _his_ t-shirt— and holding it up to her face. She presses her nose into the soft cotton, inhaling the scent of his sensitive skin laundry detergent. But it also just smells like _him._ Zoey can’t be sure how his essence has rubbed off on a clean shirt, but she can’t complain about it. Without any further hesitation, Zoey strips off her tired outfit and pulls on the shirt. It’s snug at the neck but swallows her whole otherwise. Tucked underneath where the tee was is a pair of sweatpants with the name of Max’s alma mater stitched on the hip. Zoey steps into them, tugging the drawstring as tight as she can, and runs her fingers over the purple NYU logo. 

Oliver meows again, and Zoey startles, almost forgetting he was there. “So what do you think?” she asks him, doing a slow spin to show off her anti-runway looks. “Do I resemble your dad?” The world gives Zoey her answer when on her next step, she trips over the too-long sweatpants and is once again sent crashing to the floor.

Zoey groans and lifts her gaze to the counter when she hears a concerned-sounding mew. “Yeah,” she sighs, meeting Oliver’s big green eyes. “I’m fine, thanks.” She gets to her feet, leaning on the vanity for support as she cuffs the ends of the pants about a hundred times. “Everything’s fine, Ollie.” She stays there for a while, scratching him behind the ears.

Rather than scavenging through Max’s fridge, Zoey calls in delivery and orders an extra helping of egg rolls for Max to have later. Then after lunch, she begins her cleaning spree. If she sits down for too long, she’ll think too much about her dad, and she can’t bear it. So she connects her phone to one of Max’s Bluetooth speakers, puts on the boy band playlist he recently shared with her, and drags out the vacuum. Between the vacuum’s roars, Zoey catches snippets of the songs, but doesn’t pay them much attention.

_I would walk through the desert, I would walk down the aisle_

_I would swim all the oceans, just to see you smile_

_Whatever it takes is fine_

_Whatever it takes is fine_

_Oh oh oh oh oh_

_So put your hands up_

_Oh oh oh oh oh_

_‘Cause it’s a stand up_

_I won’t be leaving ‘til I finished stealing_

_Every piece of your heart, every piece of your heart_

Or, at least, she tells herself she isn’t listening too closely. Okay, fine, she listens closely, but only to the songs she thinks are worth playing on repeat— just so she can memorize them and belt out the lyrics at the top of her lungs. But that’s only a select few— not, like, all one hundred and seventy songs in the playlist.

(Zoey really, _really_ needs to stop lying to herself.)

After several hours, the enormous windows reveal the sun bidding farewell to the city for the night. Zoey has busied herself with every time-occupying project imaginable, and she’s on the last chore she plans to accomplish before going to the hospital: dusting. 

_“Thought I didn’t need shoes on my feet,”_ Zoey trills softly, standing on her toes to swipe the duster brush over a shelf. _“Thought I didn’t need a bed to fall asleep. Thought I didn’t need love to be complete.”_ She shuffles over to the speaker to turn it up just a notch. _“Guess I didn’t know...”_

She doesn’t notice Max silently slip through the front door. With her back to him, he hangs up his jacket and takes off his shoes. With his steps concealed by the music, Max shuffles into the kitchen and admires her from afar. When he sees her wearing his clothes, his heart stumbles on a beat.

Zoey is swiping the duster over the piano now, still singing along to the voice coming from her phone. _“That I just got this crazy feeling, I’ve been making someone wait for me...”_ She falters when Oliver jumps up on the bench and swats at the feathers on her brush. Her serious tone breaks off into a reluctant giggle, but that fades too when she notices something snagged on the cat’s claw. “Hey, what do you have there?” she mumbles. It takes a few tries to catch and hold his paw long enough to grab the object, which turns out to be a velvet pouch.

Curiosity squirming in her gut, Zoey pulls open the drawstring and finds a small slip of paper inside. It reads _Peter & Edith Richman. Married March 9, 1957. _There should definitely be something else in the pouch, but it’s otherwise empty. “Aw, crap, Ollie,” she sighs. “Where did you get ahold of this, hm?”

All of a sudden she hears a quiet cough, and she turns to see Max approaching her, hands in his pockets. Zoey remembers the velvet pouch in her hands and panics, hiding the family heirloom behind her back. “Oh, uh, hey!” she chirps, shifting her weight. She ends up bumping the piano bench, and the duster clatters to the floor, scaring off the cat.

Max is frowning. Oh no, he’s frowning. Did he see what she found— or rather, what Oliver found? Giving in, Zoey scrambles to explain. “Listen, I swear I don’t know where it came from— I think there’s supposed to be rings in it, but I don’t...” She trails off when Max’s frown flips in the other direction. “Wha—”

“First of all,” he says, reaching out to stroke her hair. “I don’t know what compelled you to give my apartment the deep cleaning of the century, but thank you. You absolutely did not have to do that. But I appreciate it.”

Zoey nods feverishly, waiting for the second point.

“Second of all, I love this song,” Max tells her, pointing over his shoulder at the same Shawn Mendes tune still pouring through the speaker. “And I _love_ the way it sounds in your voice, so— just a suggestion— it would be _really_ nice if I could hear you sing the rest of it.”

Caught off guard, Zoey bites her lip and looks anywhere else but him. “Max... I don’t know if...”

But then he starts singing, tilting his head and gazing softly at her. _“Guess I need a watch to tell the time. Guess I need the sun to help me shine.”_ Between lines, he mouths _“Please?”_ with a smirk curling the corners of his lips. _“And I really need you in my life. Now I know...”_

Zoey takes a deep breath, knowing she can’t resist that smoldering look, nor the heart attached to it. And besides, she’s already listened to this song at least thirty times today, so she has no excuse. For the final chorus, she picks up where he left off, her voice wavering but solid enough to stand on its own.

_That you give me this crazy feeling_

_And you won’t have to wait no more for me, for me_

_And I just got this crazy feeling_

_I’ve been making someone wait for me_

The song ends, and Max bends to kiss her. Zoey moans into his mouth, wishing it was physically possible to stay in this position all the time. 

When they separate, they keep their foreheads pressed together, breathing the same heated air. “About the velvet pouch,” Max sighs after a minute. “Um... there _are_ supposed to be rings in there, and—”

“I swear, I don’t know what happened— Ollie had it stuck on his claw, maybe they fell out—”

“Zoey, it’s okay—”

“It’s not, though! They’re your grandparents’ wedding rights, right? And I’m sure those are super precious to you because I know how close you were with them, and... and family is important...” Words fail her as tears well up for the first time in hours. All day Zoey managed to keep them at bay, but now it’s crashing down all at once and it’s too much.

“Listen to me,” Max murmurs. He takes her hands and plants a tiny kiss on each of her knuckles, pressing a longer one on the injured finger. “You’re right, Zo. I _was_ super close with my Mimi and Pop-pop. And soon before she died, my Mimi gave me their original rings and told me to keep them for the day I met someone special.” He pauses, exhaling sharply. “You know how I get super nervous whenever I fly? To the point I have to take Ambien to have any chance of not freaking out?”

Zoey nods numbly, not sure what that has to do with old wedding rings.

“Well, um, a while ago I started carrying around that velvet pouch with the rings in them whenever I went on a trip. To have as a good luck charm, kinda. And, uh... I brought those rings with me to Vegas.” 

Disbelief nearly knocks Zoey off her feet. Her knees buckle and she leans harder on him. “So...” she mumbles. “You’re— you’re saying...”

“The pouch is empty, Zo, because the rings”— he holds up their entwined hands— “are right here.”

She shakes her head slowly, looking from the now-familiar silver bands to his face. “You’re telling me these are antique rings that were passed down to you?” At his nod, she shakes her head again. “What— why didn’t you say anything, that morning?”

“I was... _very_ hungover,” he says, grimacing. “And by the time I realized that our rings were _the_ rings, I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to just _demand_ it back from you. And besides... it does look really beautiful on your hand.”

A petite grin overtakes her shocked expression. “Wow. And what are the odds it would fit me?”

Max shrugs, returning her smile. “I guess it was the same odds that I would find you. I always like to think my Mimi is still watching over me. For five years now I’ve _known_ that she is, because I have you in my life, Zo.”

Heart thrumming, she starts to lean in again, when suddenly her phone rings. _Of course._

She picks up on the third ring and David wastes no time on hellos. “Zoey, you’re gonna have to get here as soon as you can. I need your help with Mom.”

“Okay,” she breathes. 

“See you soon.” Then the line goes dead.

Zoey sets her phone back on the counter and stares over at Max. “He’s...” She rubs her nose and starts again. “They... they don’t think he’s going to wake up again.”

Max rushes across the room to hold her, and when the storm that has been threatening her all day finally spills over, her face is already buried in his chest.


	12. fly me to the moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoey says goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the first time since i started this story, i finally arranged my outline into something... vaguely organized. so the way i have it planned now, there are three chapters left. maybe an epilogue too, if i'm up for it.
> 
> after this chapter, we will definitely be returning to the romantic side of things. as much as i adore writing zoey's relationship with her family, it can be draining to write such depressing and wistful scenes. speaking of which, there are a couple small flashback scenes in this chapter, which i hope are indicated clearly enough by italicized dialogue and past tense. 
> 
> as i say every time, thank you for the love on this fic. y'all are amazing. and hopefully i'll get another chapter out before the finale, fingers crossed!
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "fly me to the moon" by frank sinatra.

When Zoey says goodbye to her father, she’s standing in his hospital room wearing Max’s old SPRQ Point Orientation tee tucked into hastily thrown-on slacks, and her favorite jean jacket with the NASA patch resting over her shoulders. 

“He’s not in there anymore,” Maggie murmurs, running her hand over Mitch’s hair for the millionth time since Zoey entered the room. “He’s already moved on, I think. The machines are just...” She retracts her hand to rub her eyes, then settles her fingers on top of the frozen hand on the bed sheets. “Supporting a body, not a person.”

“Mom,” David says, but Zoey touches his arm, hushing him. Right now, words aren’t adequate enough. No single phrase could be better than companionable silence. At one point in her life, Zoey was familiar with the sweetness of silence, but now her mind has become so consumed with music at all hours of the day. It’s difficult to find a precious sliver of quiet time anymore.

Looking at Mitch now, stretched out on a bed in a quieter wing of the hospital, breathing and eating through tubes, sustained by a mechanism that is plugged into a cruddy outlet in the corner— it’s hard not to believe what her mom says. How can  _ that  _ be Mitch Clarke? This is the man who taught her to ride a bike in fifteen minutes (and didn’t protest when she expressed her complete lack of interest at the sixteen-minute mark). This is the man who cried unabashedly at both her high school and college graduations (and when she got the job at SPRQ Point). This is the man who gave Zoey her  _ name  _ (if it weren’t for her dad’s input, Zoey would’ve been named the much-less-desirable Dana). How is that same man reduced to this barely-moving form under a hospital gown?

The three of them sit there for a long time with him, until the minutes stretch into an hour. Guilt claws vaguely at Zoey’s conscience, because she knows Max is sitting out there in that boring waiting room listening to that annoying vending machine hum. He would wait for her out there until the end of humankind, then once people re-evolved and re-civilized themselves, she would find Max’s butt right back in that same seat, toeing at the loose threads in the drab gray carpet and paging absently through the same five-year-old issue of  _ Time  _ magazine.

By the time Max and Zoey got here, Maggie had already made her decision to take Mitch off life support. Only David witnessed the mild meltdown that ensued beforehand, so all Zoey got when she arrived was a suffocating hug and  _ “I think it’s time, honey,” _ whispered into her shoulder. And Zoey couldn’t object— why prolong this even more than it has been already? But then, at the same time, it hit her:  _ Dad.  _ Her mom only meant not prolonging the disease ravaging his system, of course, but ending that also meant no longer prolonging his life.  _ Dad. Dad. Dad.  _ And suddenly the reason Zoey couldn’t object had changed, because all her air was snatched away by a fresh wave of sobs.

They’re using every last minute they have with him, but now all Zoey can do is look at her dad and think of Max out there alone. She catches David’s eye and he nods at her, immediately reading her thoughts. She has to give her brother some more credit; the way he reminds her of Mitch sometimes is astounding, however subtle it may be. Growing up, Zoey was always a daddy’s girl, and everyone said David was a copy of their mom. But  _ wow,  _ something about the lighting in here, or maybe the way their eyes connect and just  _ know— _ in this moment, David is incredibly akin to their dad, and it’s like a balm on her chapped, aching soul. And with that in mind, she sincerely hopes her little nephew will be like Mitch just as much as he’ll be his own person. She envisions a distant, golden future where she takes Zach and her kids out for milkshakes, and she tells them about the grandfather they will only ever know through stories and pictures. One day Zoey will share all of that with him, but today is not that day.

Aware the minutes are waning, she slips out of the room and takes off down the hallway. Max is exactly where Zoey knew he would be, hunched in that chair with nothing but serene patience on his features.

She must call out his name— or maybe she doesn’t, because she’s numb to everything including her own voice— because he glances over at her, sitting up with his lips slightly parted, ready to wrap her in words of comfort. Zoey looks at him, and thinks of that hazy future, and she realizes that her kids— she wants them to be Max’s children, too. She can’t imagine it being any other way.

“Zo?” Max asks, starting to get up out of his chair. His hands grasp for her, snagging wherever they can reach, though any place would be good enough. His thumb brushes over the NASA patch— blue, red, and white, speckled with stars— and she remembers when he got her this jacket for a past birthday, her 25th, she thinks.  _ “Just so you know, I ironed on the patch ahead of time, because I’ve heard about the Incinerating Iron Incident of 2004,”  _ Max told her that day when handing Zoey her gift.

_ “Okay, listen, I was only twelve! I didn’t think one little iron had the ability to set an entire washing machine on fire.”  _ Zoey accepted the package, turning it over with a skeptical smirk.  _ “Also, no offense, but this looks like you attempted a papier-mâché project with wrapping paper.”  _

He scowled at her, but a smile hid behind his words.  _ “Wrapping gifts is... not my strong suit. You learned this on the last holiday.” _

Zoey peeled back the excessively tape-encrusted wrapping paper to reveal the folded Wrangler jacket with the stitched NASA logo emblazoned on the one breast pocket.  _ “Max!”  _ she gasped, and the following  _ “Thank you”  _ was buried in their hug. When Zoey leaned back, she peered up at him and laughed.  _ “Help me put it on?”  _

_ “Of course,”  _ he obliged.

While Max slid the jacket over her shoulders, the denim sleeves snugly embracing her arms, Zoey added,  _ “How about this: we can tag-team next Chrismukkah. With your incredible taste in gifts, and my decent wrapping skills, y’know, it could work.” _

_ “Sure, Iggy Azalea. I’m curious to see how you speed run through ‘Jingle Bells.’” _

_ “Wow, funny. You know which kind of wrapping I meant. _ ” 

Thinking back on that conversation only makes Zoey feel a smidge better. Looking at Max’s face helps more, so she takes his hands and stares at him. “I want you to be there with us,” she says. “When— when they...”

“Okay,” he says quickly so there’s no need to finish that sentence. She starts to drag him up to the reception desk so he can sign in and get one of those visitor stickers with the unflattering headshot. But Max becomes an anchor at the other end of her arm, so Zoey turns back to face him, eyes wide and pleading. “Wait, Zoey, I— you know I want to be there, but... I don’t think they’ll allow anyone back there who’s not family.”

“Max,” Zoey says firmly. “For god’s sake, you  _ are  _ family. Now come on.” Then she pulls him up to the desk, looks at the nurse, and declares, “I’d like to take my husband back to see Mitchell Clarke, please.” The lady gives them a doubtful look, and Zoey is willing to flash their wrinkled Vegas marriage license for proof, but luckily no argument is made and Max is able to check in.

The entire time Max undergoes the sign-in process, Zoey notices him swaying a little on his feet. By the time they’re walking back down the hall and he’s slapping on his visitor badge, Max has the most dumbstruck expression. Zoey has always found a little amusement in keeping him on his toes, but one day she hopes this newfound closeness of theirs won’t take him by surprise— because really, it’s not that new at all. It’s always been there.

As they approach the room, familiar notes of music pour into the hallway. Zoey hesitates at the doorway, keeping her hold on Max’s arm, which she tugs to make him stop. Max blinks down at her. “Heart song?” he whispers.

Zoey gives a single nod, straining to hear the soft vocals coming from her dad’s bedside.

_ Fly me to the moon _

_ Let me play among the stars _

_ And let me see what spring is like _

_ On Jupiter and Mars _

_ In other words, hold my hand _

_ In other words, baby, kiss me _

Maggie’s voice is so light and brittle, it could’ve been snatched away by the wind if they were outside. This is one song Zoey  _ knows; _ she’s known it her whole life. She’s heard it before countless times: through the crackly kitchen radio, or blasting from the car stereo, or humming on her dad’s lips on a million different boat trips, coasting over a sea of smooth jazz. 

But this version is so achingly different, subdued and pained. This isn’t the song that was stuck in her head when she was eleven and Mitch bought Zoey her first telescope. This version is  _ hurting.  _ This version is a plea.

_ Fill my heart with song _

_ And let me sing forevermore _

_ You are all I long for _

_ All I worship and adore _

_ In other words, please be true _

_ In other words, I love you _

It doesn’t surprise Zoey that David joins in with the second verse; it was always her and Mitch’s song, but growing up her brother was subjected to it plenty of times, too. Zoey is so fixated on watching her dad, willing him to open his eyes and take out the breathing tube and spring out of bed and sing along, that she doesn’t notice the third voice contributing to the final set of lyrics.

_ Fill my heart with song _

_ Let me sing forevermore _

_ You are all I long for _

_ All I worship and adore _

_ In other words, please be true _

_ In other words, in other words... _

Zoey’s head snaps up when Max’s hands migrate to her waist and gently turn her so that she’s facing him. She almost expects an ill-timed kiss, but no, this is  _ Max,  _ her best friend first and foremost— and not just  _ her  _ best friend, but the best friend of her family. So all he does is gaze down at her and wipe away her tears with his thumb while murmuring the final line:  _ “I love... you.”  _

As soon as the quiet instrumentals fade away, Zoey wastes no time replacing those wiped-away tears with a fresh batch. The realization hits her that this was the first time she heard this song and didn’t also hear Mitch humming or crooning along to it. She hugs Max tightly, pressing her cheek into his shirt so she can catch a glimpse of her dad. If he were really here, he would’ve sang, too.

* * *

_ “Dad!”  _ Zoey beamed, bouncing onto the patio and right into her father’s arms.

Mitch laughed, catching his daughter easily and holding her close, swinging her back and forth for a minute before setting her back on her feet. She was just barely a year out of college, but that didn’t mean they would ever stop the “spin-orbit hugs” of her childhood— and Zoey hoped he would always be able to catch her.

She was so caught up in the dizziness and exhilaration of the embrace— as if she hadn’t literally just seen her family two days prior— that Zoey almost forgot about her guest. Max was perched awkwardly on the edge of the open sliding glass door to the backyard, his hands crammed into his pockets. Zoey urged him to step down, then nudged him over towards her dad. 

_ “Um, this is Max,”  _ she explained, hands darting away from where they had been touching her friend’s arm.  _ Why are you getting all handsy with him? Jesus, Zoey, learn personal space. “My friend I met at SPRQ Point orientation a few weeks ago. You guys are always asking me to bring a friend along to your barbeques, sooo...”  _

_ “Oh, of course! Hello, Max. It’s a pleasure,”  _ Mitch said. Max tried to stick out a hand for him to shake, but instead found himself yanked into a brief, back-slapping hug. For a second Zoey feared Max, too, would be twirled into a signature spin-orbit hug, but thankfully her dad let him go quickly. 

Poor Max looked stunned, but not uncomfortable. He exchanged a glance with Zoey, who grinned stiffly and offered an apologetic shrug.  _ “He’s a hugger.” _

_ “That’s okay, I don’t mind the occasional hug,”  _ Max chuckled, and Zoey relaxed. Good. Maybe this wouldn’t be so weird, like what happened when David introduced Emily to his parents for the first time and Mitch  _ almost _ greeted her in the same way he just greeted Max— but then, luckily, thought better of it.

_ “So, Mr. Max,”  _ Mitch grunted, shifting over to check the progress of the food on the grill. He slanted his brow and stuck a toothpick between his teeth, shooting Zoey a sly, knowing wink that made her giggle.  _ “How do you feel about Sinatra?” _

_ “Sinatra?”  _ Max repeated.  _ “Oh, he’s great. I play his songs on the piano all the time.” _

The toothpick almost fell out of her dad’s mouth, but he managed to maintain his grip on it.  _ “Well, that’s very good to hear, because...”  _ Mitch paused, fiddling with the old stereo sitting on the nearby windowsill.  _ “I like a little Sinatra myself.”  _ A moment later, one of the few songs Zoey knew by heart began flowing out of the speakers. Mitch spun back around, pointing an eager spatula first at her, then at Max.  _ “You ready, Comet?”  _ he asked, smiling at her. Zoey smirked, too nervous to check Max’s expression as Mitch started to hum along.  _ “Fly me to the moon...” _

* * *

Max has never been a fan of the rain, but now he especially can’t stand it. The sopping wet, miserable formal wear paired with the dripping black umbrellas is too morbidly fitting for today. He and Zoey are the only ones, in fact, who did  _ not  _ bring black umbrellas, because Max doesn’t own any in that moody color. So here they are now, sitting in the lobby of the funeral home with a couple of cheerful pastel green and bright blue umbrellas in tow. Max had offered to stop and buy more suitably-colored ones, but Zoey insisted it was fine and said her dad would’ve liked the splash of brightness in a sea of dull.

And, really, Max can’t help but agree with her.

At the very least, they didn’t ditch the gloomy clothing. Max has on his nicest jet-black suit and tie, while Zoey is wearing a modest dress with a boat neckline and black lace sleeves crawling intricately up her arms. He’d watched her getting ready this morning in his bathroom, the door propped open to allow for quiet conversation. Max watched her swipe on mascara in methodical strokes, watched her tease her hair through a flat iron, watched her twist his grandmother’s ring around her finger while he zipped up the back of her dress for her. 

The rain is steady and relentless, lashing at the large window behind the set of armchairs that Max and Zoey have designated as their refuge during Mitch’s wake. When her baby nephew started to fuss in the quiet room, Zoey was eager to escape and all but snatched Zach out of Emily’s arms to go calm him down in the lobby. Equally intimidated as Zach was by the crushing solemnity of the pre-service, Max gladly offered to help.

Now Max is idly tapping his heel on the slippery tile floor and counting how many times he hears a hushed  _ “Sorry for your loss”  _ through the doors. Next to him, Zoey is lightly bouncing Zach on her knee, humming a nondescript tune. The baby’s cries subside, but Max still has his eyes closed, listening to her faint hum because he finds it soothing, too.

He doesn’t realize the humming has stopped until Zoey says softly, “I don’t know how I’m gonna talk in front of all those people.” It’s followed by a giant sigh that stirs the mop of dark hair on Zach’s head. “I mean, it’s not like I’m known for my eloquent speeches or anything, but... I feel like they’re expecting so much from me for the eulogy, but I tried and tried and rewrote it a thousand times and nothing was good enough.  _ God,  _ Max, I’m—” Her breath hitches around a sob. Zach, apparently absorbing his aunt’s distress, starts to whimper again.

“Here, I’ll take him,” Max murmurs, helping her transfer the infant to his lap instead. He takes up the same gentle leg bouncing motion while Zach peers up at him with big, curious eyes.

Zoey bends forward, resting her head between her knees. “I’m tired, I’m so fucking tired, and whatever I say won’t feel like enough because he’s  _ gone _ and—”

“What’s your fondest memory with him?”

She sits up again, staring at him with a furrowed brow. “What?”

“Fondest memory off the top of your head. Go.”

“Um...” She falters for a moment before the worried wrinkle in her forehead smooths over. “Fifth grade. I failed my English test because I stayed up the night before watching  _ Apollo 13.  _ It was his day off from work, and I came home crying, but he wouldn’t say anything about it, not even ‘I’m disappointed.’ He just took me to the kitchen, had me stand on a stool next to him at the stove, and he showed me how to make his hot cocoa recipe, the one he refused to share with Mom or Dave. And he didn’t say a word the entire time until we were sitting in front of the TV with our cocoa, and that’s when he said ‘Let’s watch  _ Apollo  _ again now, so that way you don’t have to stay up late watching it before the next big test, okay?’ So we watched it again.’” Zoey smiles. Her eyes are glazed over with the shine that comes with staring into a cherished old memory.  _ “Apollo 13  _ was still my favorite movie until we saw  _ Hidden Figures  _ together.”

“Yeah, I saw that one with you and Mitch a few years ago,” Max replies, patting Zach’s back.

“And I remember,” Zoey continues almost as if he hadn’t spoken. “I remember when he taught me how to drive. I was terrified I would mix up the gas and brake pedals even though it’s the most straightforward thing in the world. And it turns out I had nothing to worry about  _ that,  _ because instead I would mix up the drive and reverse settings. Eventually I got the hang of it, so one day when we went out to practice driving, he got us milkshakes to celebrate me, like, not killing us on day three, I guess.” They both chuckle, and Zach makes an amused-sounding squeak as if he’s listening, too. “Well, I was carrying the milkshakes and I set them on the roof of the car so I could unlock the door. So we’re in the car and I’m starting to pull forward when my dad just  _ shouts.  _ And I start to freak out because I think I’m going to hit somebody, so without thinking I threw it in reverse, and lo and behold, that’s how I got chocolate milkshake streaked all down both the front  _ and  _ back windshield of his car...” Her words dissolve into giggles.

Max grins at her. “Okay, first of all, I’m never getting in any car that you’re driving. And second, don’t you see? Stories like these are all you need.” 

Zoey swipes under her eyes, blinking at him in confusion. “What do you mean? That’s not—”

“Zoey, nobody wants to hear some stilted, flawless speech. They want to hear about  _ Mitch,  _ they want to know how much you loved him, and how that love translated to how amazing a person he was. Little anecdotes like that are perfect, because they lighten the mood, and— and they’re  _ real.” _ Holding the baby steady with one arm, Max reaches out with his other to squeeze her hand. “Just speak from the heart. That’s the best kind of love language there is,” he says, narrowly avoiding adding a pet name at the end. Now is not the time to call her  _ “my love”  _ for the first time.

Zoey nods. “You know what... you’re right. Thank you.” She leans over to peck him on the lips, but when she pulls back there’s still a shimmer of doubt in her gaze. “But I still might freeze up.”

“You won’t. But if for some reason that happens, then...” Max hesitates, not sure Zoey will like his solution. “I’ll help.”

“You’ll help?”

“Yeah, I- I can...” He shrugs. “I have plenty of stories I could tell about him, too. It wouldn’t be the same, but... oh! Or— don’t laugh— or I could make an absolute fool of myself and sing.”

Zoey looks up from adjusting Zach’s tiny baby socks to give Max an incredulous glance.  _ “Sing?  _ Well, great. Now that you’ve put  _ that _ idea out there, I’ll definitely trip up on purpose.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

She refuses to give him anything more than a sly wink. Then, with a resigned hunch to her shoulders, Zoey picks up Zach and leads them back into the room.

* * *

Five hours later, they climb into the backseat of a Lyft and when Max asks Zoey where to go, she says anywhere but home. They find themselves in the food court of the local mall, which is relatively quiet on a Sunday night. Neither of them are particularly hungry after the restaurant meal at the reception, so Max just orders them a couple scoops of Haagen-Dazs. 

Across the mysteriously sticky table, Zoey is slouched in the same black lace dress, mascara and old tears smudged around her eyes. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, stubbornly reverting back to its usual curl. When some ice cream drips onto her sleeve, Max catches her eye and nods at it, holding out a napkin.

“Oh, who even cares,” she sighs. “I think I’ll burn this dress after today, anyway.”

Max gives her a somber smile. “Your fireplace or mine?”

She doesn’t even have to respond; they both know the answer.


	13. i really like you/let's fall in love for the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoey has necessary conversations; later, Max presents her with an idea she probably should've seen coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoooo i told you guys i would have a new chapter up before the finale! i barely made it in time, but i did it. (it was hard to concentrate because i'm very nervous about what we're going to get tonight...)
> 
> this chapter was a lot of fun because i got to play with the dialogue and personalities of side characters who deserved the spotlight for a little bit, especially since the last couple chapters will be strictly max and zoey-centric (as they should be!) also, mo and zoey's conversation at the beginning is inspired by one of storybuyer's many amazingly clever comments from a few chapters back - thank you ;)
> 
> as always, thanks for the love! hopefully 1x12 won't destroy us... see you next time, on the other side <3
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "i really like you" by carly rae jepsen and "let's fall in love for the night" by finneas.

Readjusting to the fast-paced environment of SPRQ Point is a bit of a process. Zoey has grown used to the quiet, laidback ease of Max’s apartment, her preferred sanctuary for the past few weeks. In fact, the only activity her apartment has seen at all recently are the two five-minute stops Zoey made to get changes of clothes and a half-finished bottle of wine sitting in the fridge. She just paid rent on a place she hasn’t stood in for more than fifteen minutes for nearly a month.

On Zoey’s latest visit to Apartment 3, she is standing just outside her door, sifting through mail with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, when Mo appears on the stairs.

“Well hello there, stranger. Are you looking for Zoey? I’m afraid you’re out of luck, because she hasn’t lived here for years now.” He steps up onto the landing and fixes Zoey with a nonplussed look.

Zoey smiles sheepishly, giving Mo an awkward little wave. “Hey, Mo. You caught me... um, just leaving, actually.” 

“I’m not sure it counts as ‘leaving’ if you’re barely here to begin with, ZoPro,” Mo points out. Before Zoey can jump in to defend herself, he raises his hands and adds, “But to be fair, you  _ have _ been calling and giving me  _ plenty _ of updates from the Château Richman. How’s life in paradise been since we last talked?”

Zoey leans back against her closed apartment door, letting her heavy bag slip to the floor. The wine bottle stashed inside gives an incriminating  _ clink _ from within, which Mo only acknowledges with an approving hum. “It’s been... amazing,” she answers truthfully. “I mean, Max is... amazing. He assembled this grief box for me and it was super sweet— my favorite tequila, three packs of Double Stuf Oreos,  _ and _ he let me beat like five pillows to death with a hammer in the middle of his living room. Sooo I guess you could say I’ve kinda helped him redo his interior design a bit, because—”

“New pillows?” Mo deadpans. “So you mean to tell me this boy has opened up his home to you for weeks now, and all you’ve bought him is a bunch of new pillows?” 

Zoey starts to hang her head in shame, only to perk up a moment later when something else occurs to her. “Oh! I also bought him egg rolls! Like... two weeks ago— ohhh, I get it now, I’m a terrible person.”

Mo rolls his eyes, flipping his hair over his shoulder. “You are  _ not _ a terrible person, hon. You’re grieving, and it sucks, but it’s  _ human.  _ Grief can bring out the worst in people, but it can also bring out the best in the people around you, and I think that’s how you get an idea of which ones are the keepers.” 

“You think so?” Zoey murmurs.

“I  _ know _ so.”

After a momentary pause, she says, “So... how early on did you figure out Max and I are a thing now?”

Mo snorts out a laugh. “Little Miss Zo-It-All, anyone who  _ breathes _ could see this was years in the making— though it also helped that Simon told Eddie you only wanted to be friends, so I put two and two together. I was already working my way back to being captain of Team Max, and then there was that night he ran through the rain with a microwave for you, and that’s when I finally steered that ship safely into San Francisco  _ Bae— _ you read me?” 

“Yes, Mo, I read you loud and clear,” Zoey replies, giving a playful salute. “Anyway, don’t get too excited. We’re taking it slow, and I mean  _ very _ slow. As in, the ship might be docked for a while.”

“Fine by me, as long as the ship exists at all,” Mo smirks. He starts toward his front door, keys jingling in his hand, but then freezes and peers over his shoulder at Zoey. “Now listen, I know you just said you and Maxophone are taking it slow, but you’re standing there with a bag full of clothes and wine, about to go back to his place for who-knows-how-long, so I feel this question is appropriate— when’s the move-in date?”

Zoey blanches and chokes on air for a minute. Coughing into her fist, she manages to stutter out, “No! We— we aren’t... I mean, I’m not... what, uh, gave you that impression?”

Mo only offers her one of his  _ “Really?” _ looks and continues, “Girl, I love you, but  _ please _ feel free to move in with him anytime. I’ve been wanting to turn your apartment into a walk-in closet for  _ years. _ I’ve been mapping it out and everything.”

“I’m sure you have,” Zoey chuckles. “Let me guess— kitchen cabinets filled with shoes? A runway right through the living room?”

“Close,” Mo says. “First things first, fresh paint job. A nice coat of ‘Montana Dust’ should liven up the place a bit.  _ Then,  _ a room filled with mirrors, because it’s best to see every angle, and— oh, you’re hugging me.”

“I’m hugging you,” Zoey affirms, pressing her cheek into his chest. “I’ve missed you. I just wanna make sure you know that.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. You’re constantly Insta-DMing me TikToks I’ve already seen. That tells me all I need to know,” Mo says, his voice softening despite the relentless teasing. They stay in their embrace for a short while longer, during which a neighbor squeezes around them to go down the stairs, and then Zoey feels herself being lightly pushed away. “Okay, okay, careful with the silk, I just had it dry cleaned.” When they fully separate, her friend blinks down at his blouse with mild surprise, touching it with an uncertain hand. “It’s dry!” He looks back to Zoey. “No tears?”

“No tears,” Zoey sighs, nodding. “I’m... I’m doing okay.” Her phone buzzes in her back pocket, and she glances at the screen to find a text from Max waiting there. “I should get going,” she says. “I’ll call you soon, okay?”

But before she can go down a single step, Mo calls after her. When Zoey glances back at him, his eyes have a knowing gleam in them. “How have the heart songs been?”

A grin tugs at Zoey’s lips, ticklish along with the blush itching at her collar. “He sings me a new one almost every day,” she admits. The part she doesn’t say aloud is  _ And I love it.  _ She’s pretty sure Mo knows that, anyway.

Sure enough, her neighbor gives a curt nod of approval. “That’s how you know,” Mo hums in a sing-song voice before slipping inside his apartment and shutting the door.

* * *

On Zoey’s first day back at work after a week off, she and Max step off the elevator and are greeted by a chorus of applause from— okay, well, it’s not fair to actually call it a “chorus” because in reality, it’s only Tobin clapping for them. He springs up out of his chair and zooms around his desk, his hands a blur. The noise only attracts the attention of one other brogrammer, who merely grumbles and yanks down the cover on his isolation pod.

_ “Woo-hoo!  _ I  _ knew  _ it! I  _ knew  _ you two were gonna be a thing one day!  _ Yes!”  _ Tobin cheers, doing an impromptu little tap number which turns out quite sloppy thanks to his clunky Vans.

Zoey blinks in surprise, rendered speechless for a moment. She never thought Tobin was all that observant, at least not about anything outside his primary interests of seafood and hacking. She feels bad now to have underestimated his emotional dedication, however embarrassing it may be at her and Max’s expense.

Meanwhile, Max rolls his eyes. “Okay, so what’s the real reason you care?” he asks. Zoey sees right through his “cool front” thanks to the blush creeping up his neck. Not to mention his hand also stiffens from where it’s tightly woven with hers.

Tobin maintains his happy-go-lucky expression as he replies, “Because a happy boss ain’t a crappy boss, am I right, Z-Dog?” He hits Zoey with the finger guns, then a moment later drops the act and gives them a neutral shrug. “Nah, but me and Joan and some of the guys were placing bets on you two. It’s actually common knowledge around here that your constantly, annoyingly fluctuating relationship can be played like our own little Vegas slot machine.” Tobin starts to pull out his wallet. “Thanks to you guys taking  _ forever  _ to figure it out, I’ve lost a total of fifty bucks. But not anymore! You hear that, Sam?” He spins around, marching over to an isolation pod to expose the same perturbed brogrammer. Tobin bends down and holds out his hand. “Pay up, dude.”

Max chuckles lightly, breaking Zoey out of her astonishment. “Well, guess we don’t have to broadcast it to the whole world now. Tobin’s already got that covered.”

Zoey shakes her head slowly as they make their way over to the bullpen, their hands not separating until they reach her desk. “I just can’t believe  _ Joan  _ got in on the betting. She totally chewed us out for getting  _ accidentally married,”  _ she says, lowering her voice around their dirty little secret, “but she’s all too happy to hop in where money is involved?”

“You bet your ass I am!” Joan’s voice swoops in out of nowhere, shoving between them moments before the actual Joan appears and sets a not-so-motherly hand on each of their shoulders. “Listen, Zoey, I was prepared to gamble away every last one of your patterned sweaters that look like they were ripped from the pages of a  _ Magic Eye  _ book. I was prepared to do that favor  _ for  _ you, if getting a whole new wardrobe is what it would’ve taken to make you realize you like Matt.”

“Max,” Max corrects quietly.

“Um... thanks?” Zoey tilts her head. “Or was that just a thinly-veiled way of saying you don’t like the way I dress—”

“Enough about that,” Joan interrupts. She swivels to face Max, her businesslike expression never faltering. “Ava wants to speak with you. Remember, I am okay with  _ this”—  _ she gestures an impatient hand between Zoey and Max— “because  _ you,  _ sir, are moving to the sixth floor. Don’t think I didn’t forget about that.”

Zoey can’t help the way her shoulders slump a little, because _she,_ on the other hand, had almost completely forgotten about that.

Joan’s sharp gaze darts over to Zoey for a second, then returns to Max. “Of course I’m sad to see you go, but I think a manager position will be good for you,” she tells him. This is the more down-to-earth side of Joan that Zoey prefers to see, even if this persona sometimes comes with a side of brutal honesty. “You deserve to have some wiggle room, stretch your mind, boss others around. Take it from Zoey and me, it’s fun.” There’s a pause, then her face softens even more and she cups one hand over the side of her face to stage-whisper, “And by the way, I do know your actual name, Mac. I just like pushing your buttons.” Then, before either of them can respond to the new incorrect name, a hand fastens on Zoey’s wrist and she’s dragged away to Joan’s office.

Zoey is directed to sit in one of the chairs while Joan resumes her place behind her desk. “Joan, wha—”

“How are you?” Joan asks her. “I mean really, how’ve you been this past week?”

Zoey leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. She feels oddly exposed, like she’s been flipped inside out for everyone to view her scars and emotional turmoil of the last few months. If she and Max were that easy to figure out way before they strolled into the office holding hands, then hell, maybe everyone in the SPRQ Point building, the janitors included, somehow knows about her power. But then she catches Joan’s eye again, and she realizes that the sharpness in her boss’s gaze— which can usually be equated to that of a double-edged sword— has gone blunt. Of course—  _ now  _ Zoey gets it. Joan found out about her father passing away when Max told her, and she had to know in order to approve Zoey’s leave of absence. She just wants to make sure she’s doing okay. The knowledge that she really does find friends in unlikely places is so heartwarming that Zoey thinks she might need to call the fire department on behalf of her chest.

“I’m doing okay,” she answers. “Taking it one step at a time. Some days, I don’t take any steps, and then others... I take a lot. I think being back here will help, though. Even if it turns out I’ve missed a ton and everyone wants to kill me because I haven’t touched my part of the code for the Chirp in several days.”

Joan fails to suppress a grimace. “Yeah, well... you’re not too far off, actually.” She props her glasses on her face, which Zoey knows means business. “Look, I know work can’t be top priority all the time, and it shouldn’t be.” Zoey nods, remembering when Joan confided in her about her late mother and small beginnings in Bismarck. “But right now, it’s kinda...” She trails off, tilting her head side to side. “It kinda needs to be important, okay?”

“Okay. Great. Awesome.” Zoey blows out a breath, trying to keep it steady. If even her  _ lungs  _ are quaking in fear, then that won’t do herself or her team any good. “So where are we at?”

“Danny Michael Davis wants an update by the end of the week, and he wants it in a big fancy presentation to the entire board, yada yada.  _ And _ he wants a beta product ready for demo, which I told him would not be possible yet when I finally found the courage to answer the seventy voicemails he left me.” Joan clicks her tongue, starting to type rapidly on her computer. Zoey has to admit she’s surprised Joan’s keyboard hasn’t yet sprouted legs and tried to run away from the incessant abuse.

“Shit,” Zoey mutters.

“‘Shit’ is right,” Joan says. “But one little bright patch is Max— see, I know his name. He’s helped so much while you were out, and really stepped up to lead in your place and keep the team on track. That kept the resident sexists happy for a while, and it gave us just enough progress to hopefully meet Discount Zuckerberg’s expectations.”

A relieved flutter expands in Zoey’s stomach. Last week, she and Max didn’t discuss work much, but when they did he never once boasted about stepping up in her place and literally saving the day. Not only did he rescue everyone from a sinking ship— he also plugged up the leak and got them afloat again. Zoey could tell him “thank you” in every language in the world and it still wouldn’t be enough. “Wow,” she breathes. “I... I can’t say I’m surprised, though. He’s an amazing leader when he gets the chance to be.”

When she looks at Joan again, she finds an earnest frown. “We’ll all miss him. But he’ll only be two floors away... and, well, apparently you two are married  _ and _ living together, so...”

Zoey hides her face behind her hands. “No offense, Joan, but I’d rather save that topic for another time.”

“Yeah, can’t blame you for that.” Joan continues talking, but Zoey zones out when she hears the beginnings of a song somewhere to her left. Perplexed, she starts to stand from her chair and peer through the glass wall at the cluster of desks. Maybe Tobin forgot to plug in his headphones again? Because there’s no way this could be another heart song. There’s no way in hell.

“Zoey? Is there... a smudge on the wall that’s bothering you, or...?”

She spins back around to find Joan staring at her in bemusement. “Sorry, Joan, um... is it possible if we catch up in a few minutes? There’s something I have to check on.” At her nod of dismissal, Zoey takes off for the door, though not before hesitating for a little more not-so-subtle ass-kissing. “By the way, nice cardigan. Target?”

Joan heaves a sigh and waves her away.  _ “Yes,  _ Target. You were there when I got it. Now go on, scurry off and be a manager.” As Zoey hurries back to the bullpen, Joan calls after her, “You  _ can  _ yell at people, you know! I would pay to see that, too.”

By the time Zoey is back on the floor, she’s surrendered to the fact that this is indeed a new heart song. She hasn’t been hearing them all that often anymore since her dad died. In fact, she’s only been getting new ones from Max, and they’re all cheerful and problem-free. How foolish of her to think that her power would go easier on her from now on, or maybe even disappear altogether.

She goes up to Max, who is packing up his things at his desk after what must’ve been a very quick chat upstairs with Ava. Seeing this sends a tiny twinge to Zoey’s heart, but for the first time, her pride in him finally trumps it.

“Hey,” he says upon seeing her. “I’m cleaning out my drawer for literally the first time in five years, and it’s crazy all the crap I managed to fit in here. I mean, look at this!” He indicates a pile of solved Rubik’s Cubes. Then, with flawless timing, gravity decides to cause some mischief and send a few cubes clattering over the edge of his desk.

Zoey bends to help pick them up from the floor. “Well, I think some of these are worth taking home and, I dunno, maybe you could display them on a shelf like trophies?”

Max takes notice of the teasing glint in her eye, so he hits her back. “Great idea, Zo. Because home decor  _ can  _ consist of more than just posters of Ada Lovelace and Sally Ride, everyone’s favorite celeb crushes.”

Zoey gasps and swats his arm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. There will be no disrespecting those incredible ladies while you’re in my presence. Not to mention all  _ you  _ have is, like, a piano and minimalist gray walls—” She pauses, increasingly aware of the background music gradually picking up tempo. She glances over and sees that the music does have something to do with Tobin, after all. As if the Tobin in her imagination knows Zoey is paying attention to him now, he starts singing while rising from his desk.

_ I really wanna stop, but I just got the taste for it _

_ I feel like I could fly with the boy on the moon _

_ So honey, hold my hand, you like making me wait for it _

_ I feel like I could die walking up to the room, oh yeah _

Zoey’s eyes follow Tobin on his short path from his cluttered desk to Leif’s standing desk by the window. She watches as he plants a hand on either of his friend’s shoulders and spins Leif around to face him. “Oh, boy,” she mutters.

_ Late night watching television _

_ But how’d we get in this position? _

_ It’s way too soon, I know this isn’t love _

_ But I need to tell you something _

“Do you?” Zoey mumbles, staring while Tobin moves his hands a few inches away from Leif, drawing a perfect invisible outline of his body. Now  _ this  _ is some interesting choreography.

“Zo...” Max says from next to her. Her head jerks up, but there’s no confusion in his expression. “Heart song?” he asks.

She nods. “Yep. It’s one I both did and didn’t see coming...”

Tobin twirls Leif away from his desk, his own pep increasing along with the song’s. He reaches up to ruffle his friend’s hair and loosen his tie, effectively disheveling Leif’s well-groomed appearance.

_ I really, really, really, really, really, really like you _

_ And I want you, do you want me, do you want me too? _

_ I really, really, really, really, really, really like you _

_ And I want you, do you want me, do you want me too? _

A shadow of doubt darkens Tobin’s gaze, and he turns away from Leif, placing his hands on his head and bending down to consult with the floor.

_ Oh, did I say too much? _

_ I’m so in my head when we’re out of touch _

_ I really, really, really, really, really, really like you _

_ And I want you, do you want me, do you want me too? _

Zoey grips Max’s arm, hopelessly captivated by the performance. “Who is it?” Max murmurs in her ear. “My money’s on Sam, he seems pretty grumpy about, uh... the money.”

“No,” Zoey chuckles. “It’s Tobin, and he—” Her words hit a brick wall when suddenly the mood in the room changes. The bouncy beat shifts into a slower tune backed by acoustic guitar. Out of nowhere, Leif wakes from his stupor and reaches forward to bring Tobin back to his feet. When he starts singing a totally different song, Zoey’s jaw falls to the floor.

_ Let’s fall in love for the night _

_ And forget in the mornin’ _

_ Play me a song that you like _

_ You can bet I’ll know every line _

_ I’m the boy that your boy hoped that you would avoid _

_ Don’t waste your eyes on jealous guys, fuck that noise _

_ I know better than to call you mine _

“Oh my god...” Zoey shakes her head in disbelief, and Max stares imploringly at her. “It’s— Leif is singing, too, apparently. They’re— at each other—” She shuts up, too distracted to string together any words.

Leif guides Tobin closer to him, and they stand in the center of the bullpen. In contrast to Tobin’s playful tousling of his hair, Leif is gentle when he caresses the other man’s cheek and runs a hand through Tobin’s hair, his touch lighter than a feather. It reminds Zoey of the gentle way Max strokes her hair when he thinks she’s fallen asleep next to him on the couch.

_ You need a pick me up? _

_ I’ll be there in twenty-five _

_ I like to push my luck _

_ So take my hand, let’s take a drive _

_ I’ve been livin’ in the future _

_ Hopin’ I might see you sooner _

_ I want you riding shotgun _

_ I knew when I got one right _

Leif takes Tobin’s hand and leads him slowly around the room, swiveling isolation pods and office chairs as they go. Zoey grabs Max’s hand and leads him closer to the other pair, not caring how strange this must look to everyone else’s eyes. Max doesn’t protest, allowing her to take him along for the invisible ride.

Keeping with the subdued tone of Leif’s song, Tobin perks up slightly and throws in a set of lyrics from his number while leaning in close to his friend’s face:

_ Who gave you eyes like that? _

_ Said you could keep them _

_ I don’t know how to act _

_ Or if I should be leaving _

_ I’m running out of time _

_ Going out of my mind _

_ I need to tell you something _

_ Yeah, I need to tell you something— _

Halfway through Tobin’s part, Leif resumes singing as well, their lyrics and melodies overlapping— and occasionally clashing— in strange but well-intentioned harmony.

_ I love it when you talk that nerdy shit _

_ We’re in our twenties talking thirties shit _

_ We’re making money but we’re savin’ it _

_ ‘Cause talking shit is cheap and we talk a lot of it _

_ You won’t stay with me, I know _

_ But you can have your way with me ‘til you go _

_ And before your kisses turn into bruises, I’m a warning _

“Ugh, my head hurts,” Zoey groans, right as the heart song comes to an abrupt end. She blinks and finds that Tobin is standing at Leif’s desk, leaning over his shoulder and pointing at something on his computer screen. Leif mumbles a reply that Zoey can’t hear, then the two turn their heads to look at each other, and the conversation ceases.

“So?” Max asks, grinning curiously at her. “How did it go? I hope  _ something  _ interesting happened, because I’m not sure if you’ve realized it, but we’re standing at the top of the bleachers and many people are staring at us right now.”

Zoey smiles apologetically and tugs at his hand, leading them back down. “Thanks for bearing with me. Luckily, I  _ think  _ this one will be pretty easy to solve.” She approaches Tobin and Leif, who are once again talking quietly, but Zoey feels a prickle of dismay once she’s able to hear that they’re only talking about the Chirp. Yes, it’s silly of her as their manager to get annoyed that they’re actually being on task, but come  _ on,  _ intense feelings are at stake here!

“Excuse me, you guys?” Zoey butts in. They both glance at her with unreadable expressions. “Listen, I know how obvious Max and I have apparently been for  _ years  _ now, but we’re not the only ones.”

Leif tilts his head at her, brow furrowed appraisingly. “What are you talking about, Zoey?”

“I’m just saying...” Zoey shifts her weight from one foot to the other while thinking how best to phrase this. “I think it’s, um, kinda obvious that you two really,  _ really  _ like each other, and that, uh... maybe you should, um, possibly... fall in love for the night? And then continue to be in love, maybe? Because you already  _ are  _ in—”

“Okay, okay, stop,” Tobin steps in to put her out of her misery. “Ignoring the fact that you’re, like, way beyond overstepping personal boundaries, this really isn’t necessary, Z.”

Zoey winces; she wholeheartedly agrees with the first part of his sentence, but not the second. “Er... are you sure? Because as your supervisor, I think it’s important everyone is happy and working well together, and it seems like you two have some unresolved— but minor!— issues impeding your ability to... communicate?” It comes out as a question, but Zoey has slipped into manager mode here, and she can’t help thinking her word vomit actually sounds somewhat valid this time. “Remember,” she adds when neither of them speaks for a minute, “Danny Michael Davis is gonna be here on Friday, and he’ll want to see progress made. How about you two, um, go out for lunch together? And talk things out?”

“Ohhh, I know what this is about,” Leif says, catching her off-guard. He starts laughing almost manically, leaning hard on Tobin’s shoulder while clueing him in. “Zoey here doesn’t know that we’re an item.”

“Oh! This makes a lot more sense now. Yeah,” Tobin says, grinning at Zoey. “We started sleeping together weeks ago. I guess you missed a lot while you were gone.”

Taken aback, Zoey stares between them for a moment before ending the conversation with, “Wow... so... congrats! Now if you guys could just say the L-word to each other and then get back to work, that would be  _ great.”  _ With that, she turns and marches back over to Max, who was observing from a safe distance. Behind her, Zoey thinks she hears Tobin mutter to Leif in confusion, “Why would I say ‘lesbian’ to you?” and honestly, she wouldn’t put it past him to make that mix-up.

* * *

At the end of the day, Max calls them a Lyft back to his place. And after a long shift of straightening out snags in the Chirp’s code, trying to get Tobin and Leif to confess their undying love for each other,  _ and  _ attempting to not make a mess out of the newly-instated taco bar, Zoey is grateful to not have to walk home.

It’s only when she and Max have collapsed into the backseat of a bland Nissan that it hits her—  _ home.  _ Whenever Zoey thinks of the word, the only place that comes to mind is Max’s apartment. The realization plunges her deep into a contemplative mood for the duration of the ride.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Max asks when they pull up to the curb. He pushes open his door, thanks the driver, and helps Zoey out onto the sidewalk.

“Honestly, it might take quite a few pennies to sort through everything in my mind,” Zoey tells him as they walk inside his building. 

“Well, we can start somewhere, right? And then work our way from there,” Max says, and  _ god,  _ this is why Zoey loves him.

She sighs, entering the apartment behind him and immediately going to the fridge to heat up last night’s leftovers for dinner. “I guess... I just don’t get it. Maybe it was stupid to think so, but I thought maybe once— once my dad was gone... my powers would go away.” Zoey shrugs, averting her eyes from him while stirring spaghetti sauce into a bowl of pasta and shoving it in the microwave.

“I don’t think that’s stupid,” Max says. “I can see why you thought that. I mean, Mitch... him passing away was a big turning point in all our lives, especially yours. And so was getting your power. It makes sense you would associate the two.”

“Right? Sometimes I used to think that the musical numbers in my head were— were some kind of  _ avoidance  _ technique, I don’t know. Somewhere in my subconscious, I guess. So my mind wouldn’t be on Dad every single second of every single day.” Zoey continues fiddling with the microwave while Max retrieves silverware from the drawer.

“You know, there is a bright side to this,” Max points out. He comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist.

Zoey leans back into his embrace. “And what’s that?”

“Well, maybe it’s more of a bright side for you, because personally, I  _ love  _ hearing you sing. But Zo, your power hasn’t glitched for a while now.” She feels his shoulders move up into a shrug. “So maybe that means something.”

She turns her head to nuzzle his chest, fingers idly playing with the buttons on his shirt. “I sure hope so. I can’t imagine spending the entire rest of my life like this.”

Suddenly Max steps away, and Zoey stumbles to catch herself from falling backward into the space he was in a moment ago. She whirls around to look at him. Zoey can thank her power for a few things, and one of them is her vastly improved ability to read people. Heart songs aside, she’s learned that eyes can reveal a lot of what someone’s hiding beneath the surface. It’s there in Max’s eyes that she finds a renewed sense of trepidation.

“You know what I meant,” she says softly, lifting his chin with an index finger. “Us... we’re a totally separate thing from my power.”

Max gives her a doubtful look. “Really?”

“Okay, well,  _ mostly  _ separate. But we couldn’t really control our feelings getting entangled with it. Anyway, Max,  _ this”—  _ she waves a hand at the quiet apartment around them, then returns her fingers to their rightful place stroking his jaw— “this is something I  _ can  _ imagine spending the entire rest of my life in.  _ You  _ are someone I can imagine the rest of my life with.”

And just like that, all of his uncertainty is washed away. Max closes the gap between them, kissing her with building passion until they’re cruelly interrupted by a nagging  _ beep, beep, beep  _ from the microwave.

Zoey breaks the kiss with a reluctant moan, still cradling his face with one hand while popping open the microwave door with the other so it’ll shut up. She leans in again but not all the way. “Unless... you think I should go back to my own place and start using my own microwave again...?”

“You mean start  _ deconstructing _ your own microwave again?” Max snorts.

“Hey,  _ Matt,”  _ she teases, flicking his nose. “Be fair. I haven’t taken yours apart yet!” Zoey shoots a hostile glare at the unsuspecting appliance. “And anyway, this one isn’t as cool as the red one you bought me.”

Max pulls her eyes back toward his with a single hum. “Well... this is just a thought, but... we  _ could  _ throw away this old thing and bring your nice new red one here. And, like, all your other stuff, too.”

Zoey stares at him, her brow scrunching in thought. Thanks to that smoldering look in his eyes, her brain has been rendered into a useless pile of mush. Is... is he suggesting what she  _ thinks  _ he’s suggesting? “Or... I could... go back home...”

“Or not,” Max counters.

She knows her face is on fire right now, but she hopes her growing smile complements the blush. “Or not,” Zoey agrees. Then she brings his lips back to hers.


	14. your body is a wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max has some very fluffy thoughts about his girlfriend and her family (read: he is WHIPPED for Zoey). After his surprise for her goes awry, they end up taking a new step forward in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is overflowing with fluff. if you end up needing to see the dentist because your teeth rotted out from all the sweetness, please accept my apologies ahead of time >:)
> 
> a few other notes: the last portion of this chapter (starting when they return to zoey's apartment) gets a little bit sexy. y'all have no idea how tempting it was to make that part smutty, but i wanted to keep my rating so i resisted. so don't worry, it's nothing explicit, just heavily implied stuff. also, about the photographic/pornographic memory line - yes, that's a callback to an earlier chapter, and whoever is responsible for it, you know who you are ;)
> 
> because this quarantine do be making me bored like that, i made a couple spotify playlists based off this fic. [THIS ONE](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7daeUCo1yDeqNhsSXBJQuW?si=uYm40necRL-50GSMT0yQpw) includes all the songs i've used in this story, including a few that were just mentioned in passing. once i finish the story i may add a few more songs that inspired me throughout the course of writing. and [THIS ONE](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3hYJJ2mZS71Occ7QN4L3mm?si=Mch6c3UPRYGtxZmve1QTOg) is meant to be max's boy band playlist that's mentioned once or twice, just something i threw together for fun :)
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "your body is a wonderland" by john mayer.

If only they’d figured things out sooner.

Max tells himself that a lot these days, more than he should. In fact, what he  _ should  _ do is be fair to himself and to Zoey, and not think that at all— but he does. He thinks about a universe full of possibilities. He thinks about the million different ways he and Zoey could have met— reaching for the same bottle of wine in the store, running into each other on the street, being set up on a blind date together and surprisingly hitting it off. From the very beginning, Max and Zoey could have been an item; they could have stepped right over friendship and dived directly into the deep end of the pool. And maybe they would have in some other world.

But Max has given himself plenty of time to consider it, and he knows that in the long run, a five-year-long friendship was never a  _ hurdle  _ for them; rather, it was a stepping stone in their relationship. (And naturally their friendship continues now, just with a little more kissing and a little less denying feelings.)

Of course it would’ve been great if Mitch had gotten to see Max and Zoey together, openly in love with each other rather than quite literally dancing around it. The possibility was on Mitch’s mind from the second time he met Max, and it fell onto Maggie’s radar soon after. It took a little longer for Max himself to realize how wonderful it would be to kiss Zoey between sips of champagne at her parents’ New Year’s countdown; how amusing it would be to craft a flashy, glittery Valentine’s card for her, cheesy enough to earn gags from Emily _and_ David; how lovely it would be to stroke Zoey’s hair (or her hand, or her arm, or her back) while watching her unwrap birthday gifts from family on a chilly December evening. 

How amazing would it be to one day have a picture of Mitch cradling Max and Zoey’s newborn, to have a photo just like the one of him holding baby Zach? The reality was that Mitch could no longer hold anything, so Emily had carefully laid his grandson on his lap and held him steady, leaning just out of the camera’s viewpoint for the picture to be taken. Max spends a long time staring at the picture on his phone, imagining how it would’ve looked if Mitch had been able to laugh, or cry, or even just  _ smile  _ down at his grandchild.

Max squeezes his eyes shut until tears leak out around the edges. He needs to stop thinking about the could-have and would-have-beens. Dwelling on the past isn’t healthy. Living in a world where Mitch Clarke is now only a part of the past isn’t ideal, but it  _ is _ reality, and Max has to accept that. If not for himself, then at least for his girlfriend— because Zoey has been working so hard to get better, and Max is here to support her just as she supports him. The need to be her rock during this tough time outweighs everything else, because he knows she would do the same for him.

With that in mind, Max swipes away from the picture and continues scrolling through the shared folder of family photos. It was started by Maggie (with Zoey’s assistance) when she expressed her wish to have every last Zach picture in existence easily accessible at her fingertips. Max didn’t even have to request to be added; they did it automatically. 

(And god, he loves Zoey’s family so much. Before meeting the Clarkes, Max never really understood the concept of loving somebody _to pieces,_ but now he can appreciate it. The Richmans are a solid, impenetrable unit, prickly and difficult to embrace, impossible to wrap one’s arms around and _love._ But Mitch and Maggie and David and Emily and most of all, _Zoey—_ Max could break down all the little things he adores about the Clarkes, each and every tiny component that makes them _them._ He does love them to _pieces.)_

“I think I know what you’re looking at,” a small voice pipes up from beside him. “And I get it. I could stare at those pictures all night, too.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, tilting his head back against the pillow to peer down at her. Max is able to conceal his surprise at the welcome intrusion to his privacy, though he’s already known for a while that Zoey is awake. She’s been tossing and turning just as much as he has, which  _ might  _ have something to do with the comfort level discrepancy between his California king bed and her less sizable queen. Lately they’ve been trying to split more time between their apartments until her lease is up and she can officially co-sign when Max renews his. The first part of the week they’re at his place and the second half they’re at hers, with Wednesday nights flip-flopping. Tonight is a Friday (or technically, last night was Friday), so this time it’s Zoey’s apartment serving as the setting for their 2 AM bonding experience. 

He flicks his thumb over the screen, pausing at a snapshot of Zoey trying to feed her nephew in his highchair. Max remembers taking this photo, and he chuckles at the memory of that day. The grimace Zoey is wearing as she cautiously holds out the spoon of baby food can be explained by the entire jar’s worth of mashed peas splattered over the front of her sweater. 

When she and Max eventually left David and Emily’s, Zoey ended up wearing Max’s button down for the ride home while he stayed in his undershirt. It had been a warmer day, somewhere in the vicinity of seventy-five degrees, so Zoey rolled the sleeves up (or rather, cuffed them about a thousand times). Then she tried to make it stylish,  _ “because Mo says anything can be fashion if you put effort into it.”  _ To which Max had interjected,  _ “Really? Are you sure my third-grader style can be salvaged?”— _ but Zoey only laughed and proceeded to undo the lower buttons on the shirt, then tie the loose ends into a sloppy bow, saying  _ “Well, at least I tried.” _

But standing there in the mid-May heat, watching Zoey lean back into the car to grab her purse, his eyes following the movement of her shirt—  _ his  _ shirt on  _ her—  _ riding up to expose a sliver of pale, soft skin above the waistband of her jeans, Max had an epiphany: Zoey wearing his clothes was  _ hot.  _ It was his second realization of the sort, the first of which had occurred that day he came home to her frantically trying to repay his hospitality, dusting and singing Shawn Mendes in his t-shirt and college sweats. 

Max hasn’t thought much about religion since his bar mitzvah when he was thirteen, but in that moment he was pretty sure he found an entirely new faith, one that shot straight to his core. He’s tossed around vocab words such as “epiphany” and “rapture” before, but that afternoon he truly experienced both, with the latter seizing him when, mere minutes after arriving back at his place, Zoey begged for him to touch her. Max obliged, of course, finding that the act of brushing aside his own shirt collar to pepper kisses along her collarbone was something otherworldly. Max never knew he could love someone so purely and so wildly at the same time.

Max isn’t sure when that fond memory turned into a dream, but suddenly it’s the next morning. He’s still slouched down against the excessive amount of pillows Zoey keeps on her bed. With a pained grunt, he stretches until he hears his spine crack, breaking up the tense ache in his lower back from falling asleep in a weird position. He pats the covers to find where his phone migrated to after he drifted off. Then he pushes the sheets back and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Somewhere in her subconscious, Zoey is disturbed by his movement; with an irritated grumble, she rolls over onto her other side. Max conceals his chuckle in a smirk, knowing when to pick his battles. She sure loves her sleep— no matter which apartment or who’s bed, Max is always the first one to wake in the morning, the one who deposits sleepy forehead kisses and goes to start the coffee machine. 

Max is stepping into a pair of sweatpants when he hears a drawn-out groan behind him. He thinks his name is grunted somewhere in between  _ “errrr”  _ and  _ “mmmph,”  _ but he can’t be too sure. Before he can turn around, a pair of adorably short legs stretch out, feet fastening around his waist and toes curling into his hips, pulling him back to bed. Max all too easily admits defeat, falling backwards onto the mattress and resting his head on Zoey’s stomach, peering up at her. It’s difficult now to imagine a time when they shared a bed (twice!) and  _ weren’t  _ all over each other.

“Hey, beautiful,” he hums, reaching up to tap under her chin. “Ready for today?”

“Hmm,” Zoey yawns. “What, uh, what exactly are we doing again?”

“It’s a surprise.” Too excited to sit still, Max springs up off the bed again, shimmying into a flecked gray t-shirt. “By the way, if I happen to sing a heart song at any point, let me know. I can think of a few that could spoil the surprise, so I’m a little nervous.”

Zoey scoots off the bed, following him into the kitchen. “Just, umm... don’t think about it?” she advises lamely.

Max rolls his eyes. “Easier said than done.”

The surprise has a set time, but it’s not until the early afternoon, so they spend their Saturday morning leisurely. They give her shiny red microwave some exercise, using it to heat up frozen mac-and-cheese for breakfast, because fuck it. They watch their latest Netflix obsession,  _ Dead to Me—  _ “I’m sorry, I know Jen’s husband just died, but she and Judy should totally be a thing!”— and Zoey chats on the phone with Maggie for a bit. It’s been almost two months since Mitch died, and Max knows Zoey worries about her mom being alone in that house all day.

“I mean, the only living things in that big house are her and her plants. That’s it,” Zoey says around her toothbrush. They’re getting ready in her bathroom, standing side by side in the compact space (Max’s bathroom is slightly more forgiving space-wise, with two separate sinks that until recently always made him feel like the loneliest bachelor when he looked at them). “And I know David can’t visit all the time with the baby, so then it’s up to me, but between work and getting ready to move, I just can’t be there as much as I want to.” She leans down to spit into the sink, and Max takes his opportunity.

“Well... you  _ do  _ know Howie still visits often, right?” he asks. Zoey straightens slowly, catching his eye in the mirror. 

“How do you— oh, right, you talk to her on the phone too, like you’re one of her old high school friends.”

Max sighs at the bite in her tone, setting down his comb and pulling her into a fleeting side-hug. “Zo, I love you, but I can’t say I like being compared to so-called ‘friends’ like Mary. That lady left your mom hanging for  _ decades  _ only to join Facebook and—”

“Okay,” Zoey interrupts, taking his shoulders and turning him to face her. “Max, honey, we’re getting off track. Do you know something Howie-related that I don’t? Are they...” She trails off with a slight grimace.

Forcing himself to put aside his neverending awe of Zoey calling him “honey,” Max only shrugs and tells her, “It’s not anything like  _ that.  _ He’s just there as a friend, keeping her company, cooking her meals— or rather, heating up all the casseroles from the neighbors.”

Zoey lets out a breath, fanning away her embarrassed blush. “Right. Yeah. Of course. I- I’ll have to tell him thanks next time I see him. Or maybe I should give him a call—”

“You can later, but right now we have to get going or we’ll be late,” Max says. He rummages through the drawer, quickly finding the shaving kit he keeps at her apartment. “I just have to shave, then we can be on our way.”

“Oh! Speaking of that.” Zoey pauses, and Max glances up, reading her hesitation.

“What’s up?”

“I was... oh, I don’t know... I was just thinking, maybe you could, um...  _ not  _ shave,” she says.

Max blinks at her, not sure if he’s understanding.  _ “Not  _ shave?”

Zoey places a hand on the side of his face, running her thumb over the light stubble. “I kinda like the idea of you having a beard,” she admits. “I mean, if you’re not opposed to it... y’know, your body, your choice...”

He tips his head to the side, considering. “I’ve never kept a beard for more than a week, but I’m willing to try again.” He puts his hand over hers, moving it all around his face until he gets a laugh out of her. “You don’t think I’ll scare off anyone? What if Zach doesn’t recognize me anymore?”

Zoey leads them to the door, her laugh taking on a dubious undertone. “I think the one who should be most scared is  _ me.  _ What if Autumn sees you next time we go to Golden Gate Grind and decides she likes bearded Max and wants you back?”

“Well, then we’ll continue not going there,” Max replies, tying his shoes. When she shoves his arm, he adds, “I mean, I doubt the sexiest lumberjack beard in the world could draw her back to me, and I absolutely respect that. I mean, didn’t you say she threw coffee in my face?”

Zoey checks her phone one last time before dropping it in her purse— although her dad’s been gone for a couple months, there is still a paranoia that she somehow left the device on silent and missed important texts or calls. “Yeah, but it was only in my head.”

“But it still counts, because your power only tells the truth, right?”

Max is already down the first flight of stairs when he realizes Zoey isn’t behind him. He looks back over his shoulder to find her still locking the door, nose scrunched and eyes dazed in what he assumes is deep thought. His question goes unanswered.

* * *

It was a long time coming, but last month, Max finally caved and bought a car. It is easy enough getting around the city via rideshares and walking, but one day the gently-used silver Audi popped up on the car buying app (Car _ Max,  _ ha ha) that he’d forgotten he downloaded a while ago. His recent promotion and pay raise also gave him a nudge, so after an impressive test drive— during which Zoey tested the quality of the leather by accidentally smearing lip gloss on her seat, to her utter horror— Max bought it and drove it home the same day.

Of course, Zoey has already adjusted everything on the passenger side to fit her preferences (“The AC in this car is  _ insane!  _ I feel like it could blast me into next year!”) while Max has the audio preset to put on his beloved boy band playlist. He finds it annoying that he has to keep his eyes on the road ahead when he would prefer to stare at Zoey sitting next to him. She is so easy to admire when she sings along to Jonas Brothers’ “Cool” and says things like “I really am ‘feeling so cool’ because of this freakin’ AC!” God, how can he  _ not  _ adore her?

It’s made all the more amusing by the fact that Zoey is currently wearing a blindfold. She put it on grudgingly at Max’s request, because he seriously wants her to be one hundred and ten percent surprised. “Still no revealing heart songs?” Max asks as they pull into the parking lot of their secret destination.

Zoey nods in affirmation. When she tries to peek around her blindfold, Max swats her hand away. “Okay, okay,” she giggles. “And no, still nothing to combat the bangin’ Ed Sheeran songs. By the way, I think Mo would have a heart attack if he saw what’s on your playlist.”

“He’s already seen, and he threatened our friendship over it. Also, if you really love me, please  _ never  _ say ‘bangin’ again.”

Zoey smirks at him, and Max wishes he could see that mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Fine. Your request is acknowledged, but not necessarily accepted.”

Max swings the car into a parking space, hops out, and goes around to open Zoey’s door for her. “Hey!” he warns when she again tries to take off the blindfold. “Just a few more seconds, I promise.”

Linking her arm loosely through his, Max guides her up to the dock. Luckily, today is a gorgeous June day, with not a trace of any clouds in the sky. The California sun Max has grown to adore beams down over the bay, highlighting each lapping wave in a golden shimmer. With the scene set, Max positions Zoey at the edge of the gravel parking lot, then steps behind her and unties her blindfold.

At first she squints at the harsh brightness, but then Max slides on her sunglasses and jumps in front of her with his arms spread wide. “Ta-da!” His head swivels from her to the picturesque view in front of them, and he can’t decide which is more worthy of being framed in a museum (just kidding— Max is positive his girlfriend would even beat the view at the Grand Canyon). “I thought we could go sailing,” he explains when Zoey doesn’t immediately respond.

She covers her face with her hands. “Oh, wow. I haven’t gone since before Dad...” Her words taper off into a sniffle, and Max pulls her into a hug.

“It’s okay if you’re not up for it,” he says, desperate to make her tears go away. The last thing he wants is for her to cry even  _ more.  _ “We can leave right now and—”

“No,” Zoey interrupts. “No, it’s okay. I- I wanna do this. In his honor.”

Max gazes down at her fondly. God, she really makes his insides feel like they’re made of velvet. “Okay,” he murmurs, taking her hand. “Let’s do it.”

* * *

As it turns out, Mitch taught them both well over the years. Though Max doesn’t ask for any help, Zoey still assists him through all the motions of preparing their rental boat to set sail. As they push away from the shore and drift farther out onto the water, Max thinks back on the handful of times he accompanied the Clarkes “at sea.” 

He remembers fishing once with Mitch when David bailed, and Mitch spent the entire time telling him,  _ “I’m proud of David, of course I’m proud. But promise me you’ll never become a lawyer, Max. I’m afraid of how much precious time he loses when leisure has to be sacrificed for work.”  _ At the time Max had found it a bit odd that Mitch was so concerned about his future, but eventually it hit him that he has been considered a part of the Clarke family for far longer than he initially realized. And whether or not his future would end up intertwining with Zoey’s, Max still mattered to her parents— and that meant more than Max was ever able to express to Mitch.

It’s right at this moment, sitting here with Zoey out on the water, the breeze tousling their hair and her hand sliding meaningfully up his thigh, when Max’s thoughts from 2 AM come full circle.

It’s not like he ever missed any important celebrations with Zoey’s family just because they weren’t a couple— Max had still been right there with them, slicing birthday cakes, posing for photo album-worthy pictures, telling stories late into the night. Part of why being Zoey’s best friend is amazing is because right behind her is a loving, supportive family, something he never got to experience for himself growing up. Max had always considered knowing Zoey to be the highest privilege, a sweet treat he didn’t truly deserve. Just getting to be in her life, getting to walk into a room and watch her face light up when she sees him— that’s really all Max needs to spend the entire rest of his life over the moon. It’s taken a while for the scars of his childhood to fade, but now he has finally realized that maybe he _does_ deserve to indulge in this wonderful sweetness.

Zoey’s hand reaches his waist, then continues sliding all the way up to cradle his face. He leans into her touch, grinning wider when her thumb dips into the faint dimple on his left cheek. Her sunglasses are propped up on her head so Max can see her eyes, intensely blue and reflecting the sky. “Thank you for doing this,” she tells him. “Really. I had no idea how much I needed it until we were out here.”

“I missed this,” Max agrees, rubbing the small of her back. They’re perched on the boat’s small bench, their backs facing the open bay, and even with their life jackets safely on he’s still a  _ tiny  _ bit paranoid about falling in. After all, Zoey has already had  _ plenty  _ of unintentional falls recently, and her finger is still sore from the tumble she took in his kitchen.

“So... I was thinking about what we’ll do with our... um, ‘friendship rings,’” Zoey says. The subject change is sudden enough to give Max whiplash, so he’s definitely listening when she goes on, “I mean, I think we owe it to ourselves to start over on that front, you know?”

Max nods. With all that has been going on recently, it’s almost too easy to forget about what happened in Vegas. It’s hard to believe that when Max looks at Zoey, he’s looking at someone who is technically more than his girlfriend. But Max is fairly sure what the fate of their drunken elopement will ultimately be. At least he knows in his heart that one day they’ll get a well-deserved do-over. One day, he will make this right, and ask Zoey to be his wife in a way that’s planned ahead of time (and preferably while sober). One day, it will be the perfect time for that, but that time isn’t now.

It’s crazy, because they just might be the only couple in history to be moving in together while actively divorcing. But that’s Max and Zoey— crazy. Max is a firm believer that things fall into place in a certain order for a certain reason, so he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“What were you thinking?” Max asks, examining the silver ring on his hand. It means more to him now than he ever could have imagined.

Something subtle flashes over Zoey’s face. “I think I’ll make it a surprise,” she says. And before Max can protest, she scoots as close to him as physically possible, takes his face in her hands, and kisses him like he’s about to be shipped off to war.

_ “Mmph...  _ Zoey—” he grunts, but the words are lost somewhere between his lips and hers, swallowed whole in a kiss which is followed by another one, and another one. Max swipes his tongue over her bottom lip, inviting himself into the sweet cavern of Zoey’s mouth. She tastes like spearmint gum, which is weird because he doesn’t remember her asking for a piece— oh, wait, that’s  _ his  _ gum. Or, well, it  _ was.  _ Not anymore.

Then it comes to a screeching halt. Max isn’t sure if it’s Zoey’s push into his chest urging him to lie down on the bench, or if it’s a particularly strong gust of wind, but next thing he knows, he’s rolled off the boat. He hears Zoey yelp, her hands groping the empty air where Max’s body had been just a moment ago. She isn’t able to catch him, and the side of the boat is too slippery for him to grab on to. With a pitiful splash, Max plunges into the bay, and he’s sorely reminded why they rarely spend time outdoors.

“Holy shit, Max! Are you okay?” Zoey reaches for him, leaning nearly her entire body off the edge so his flailing hands can find hers.

Max’s head breaks the surface and he spits out a stream of water. “Fine,” he gasps, teeth chattering. “I’m fine.” He never wondered what it would feel like to have frozen bone marrow, but now he knows anyway. With her help, Max hoists himself back onto the boat, flopping down on the floor like a waterlogged boot. Zoey immediately shrugs off her jacket, replacing his soaked one with hers.

“I’m so sorry, that was totally my fault and—”

“Sh- shush,” he mumbles. “No it wasn’t.” He wraps his arms around her, craving her body heat. Zoey doesn’t appear to mind her clothes getting wet, because she fully returns his embrace and covers his face in kisses (and intermittent giggles). Max stares dazedly up at the sky, letting her envelop him until he can feel his fingers again. “Just... so c- cold, for June.”

Zoey grimaces, hopping to her feet. “Okay, I’m getting you back to shore. You need a hot shower, stat.” 

“Sounds g- good.”

When they’re about halfway back, she sticks out her tongue, confusion scrunching up her nose. “Where did this gum come from?” Then her eyes land on the shivering Max, who she has situated in a patch of warm sun. He only offers her a self-satisfied smirk.  _ “Oh,”  _ she says, and turns away so he can’t see the blush he already knows is there.

* * *

Mo is just leaving his place when Zoey and Max come stumbling up the stairs to her apartment. When their friend spots them, his eager smile quickly morphs into an expression of bewilderment.

“Now what the hell happened to you two? Don’t tell me Anticli-Max ran through the rain again, because I thought today was supposed to be sunny.”

“How come we’re the only ones who are lucky enough to earn such kind nicknames?” Max mumbles facetiously while Zoey scrambles to get the door open.

“No time to explain,” she pants to Mo. “Hope you have a great day talk to you later bye!” The words come out in a rush which Zoey hopes is coherent, then the door falls open and she drags Max inside the apartment.

Right in the entryway, Zoey helps Max strip out of his damp clothes. Her mind is so focused on the task at hand— increase his body temperature with a hot shower, and have a bowl of chicken noodle soup ready for him when he gets out— that she doesn’t even pause to think of the (unintended) sexually-charged undercurrent to her actions. But Max does.

He nearly takes a header when Zoey yanks down his jeans, tossing aside his belt somewhere in the vicinity of his already-discarded shirt and jacket. “Whoa, whoa,” Max mumbles, steadying himself on the wall. He’s still pretty chilled, but something about seeing Zoey knelt down in front of him, helping him step out of his pants, is having a profound effect on him. A quick glance at his groin tells her this, and seeing  _ that  _ is enough to light a fire in her core.

“Come on,” she orders, ushering him into the bathroom. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

“Umm...” Max coughs. “I think you’re doing  _ plenty  _ of that already.”

Zoey bites her lip, peeking down at him again and—  _ damn.  _ Well, he must not be  _ that  _ cold anymore. She averts her eyes. Now wouldn’t be the right time for this, right? Right. Now she just needs to tell herself that a hundred more times, then maybe it will sink in.

She pokes him until he steps into the shower. And  _ then  _ he has the audacity to emit a groan that sends shockwaves through her body which definitely tip past ten on the Richter scale. “Maaax,” she warns. “Do you need me to put you in a  _ cold  _ shower?”

In response, Max’s arm appears from behind the shower curtain, flicking his briefs onto the floor. Zoey can see her face flush fire engine red in the mirror, and she stifles a laugh behind one hand. She can’t believe how unfair he is being right now, because she is  _ so  _ unbelievably turned on.

“You know, seeing you drive my car was...  _ really  _ hot,” Max’s voice calls from the other side of the curtain. Moments later, the faucet squeaks on. Zoey squeezes her eyes shut, but that only makes her picture his toned body even more in her mind: the soft outline of abs, the downy chest hair, those  _ nipples...  _ Now her photographic— or rather,  _ pornographic— _ memory of his body feels less like a blessing and more like a painfully irresistible curse.

“Was it?” she chuckles nervously. “I mean, I was just... you know... driving a car. As people do.”

“Yeah, but... it was  _ you,”  _ he hums. When Zoey squints hard enough at the curtain, she swears Max is standing in there touching himself. God, please let that just be her imagination. Her terrible, awful, no good, very bad overactive imagination.

Zoey starts pacing in the small space, seriously debating if this is how their first time together should happen. To be honest, she’s impressed with both herself and Max that they’ve resisted jumping each other so far. But they  _ did  _ promise to keep things slow and steady, setting the limit at heavy make out sessions. Zoey can only hold off for so long, but why should she? (And the fact  _ does  _ stand that she recently went back on birth control after the longest dry spell of her life. It’s safe to say she’s been anticipating this for a long while.)

Now she decides to test him. She steps closer, watching curls of steam escape around the edges of the curtain. “Is it... hot enough in there?”

“Mmm. Not quite,” he replies. “Could be hotter.”

Zoey’s heart thuds at the base of her throat. “How can I help?”

“I can’t reach the shampoo.”

Zoey snorts at the lame excuse. If  _ he  _ can’t reach this metaphorical bottle of shampoo sitting on its imaginary out-of-reach shelf,  _ her  _ 5’2” self sure as hell can’t. Nevertheless, she blindly sticks an arm into the shower, aiming for the corner where she keeps her soaps. When Max touches her wrist, Zoey opens her mouth to protest but finds she has no such words.  _ Oh, screw it,  _ she thinks to herself.  _ I shouldn’t have to overthink  _ everything  _ in my life!  _

“You know what, maybe I should, um, get in there and—” Zoey cuts herself off, giving up on words for the moment. Her own clothes got fairly damp in transport, so peeling off her shirt and jeans is a relief, and unhooking her bra is as effortless as ever. By the time she’s bare, she is running on nothing but pure instinct and desire. “Max?” she calls. “I’m going to—”

“Zo,” Max chuckles. “Please just get in here.”

The underlying whine in his tone is desperate and yearning, and it makes her knees wobble. Whipping back the curtain, Zoey steps into the shower. The water is blazing hot, plastering her hair to her shoulders. Steam rushes into her lungs as she gasps out a ragged breath, blinking water out of her eyes.

Max is right in front of her, a hazy shape through the mist but still clearly sexy. He takes her in slowly, eyes roaming her body like each feature is something to savor. “Wow,” he puffs. “Can I—?”

Zoey gives him her answer, taking his hands and... putting the shampoo bottle in them. “First, you’re gonna need this. The water in the bay isn’t the cleanest.”

He groans out her name, and her ache for him is overwhelming. Max leans into her, the shower spray slicing through his broad shoulders. “But I’ll just get dirty again,” he murmurs into her hair.

“Max,” she sighs. Before she can give a voice to her reeling mind, she hears the unmistakable sound of acoustic, muffled only slightly by the running water. Zoey watches as Max leans away from her, taking the shampoo bottle from her and proceeding to play a dorky air guitar with it. She tries not to double over in laughter as he starts to sing.

_ We got the afternoon _

_ We got this room for two _

_ One thing I’ve left to do _

_ Discover me, discovering you _

__

The sight of a naked Max Richman enclosed in a cramped shower with her, doing his best not to slip as he sways side to side, is an image Zoey will never forget for as long as she lives. Continuing the first verse, he bends down toward her, his lips tantalizingly close as they ghost over hers.

_ One mile to every inch of _

_ Your skin like porcelain _

_ One pair of candy lips and _

_ Your bubblegum tongue _

He squirts out some shampoo into one hand, then rubs his palms together slowly, eyes never leaving hers. Carefully, Max rotates Zoey so her back is to him, and the next instant she feels his hands on her head, fingers massaging shampoo into her hair with a steady, circular rhythm.

_ And if you want love we’ll make it _

_ Swim in a deep sea of blankets _

_ I take all your big plans and break ‘em _

_ This is bound to be a while _

Max’s hands are tools of temptation, drifting down her neck and grazing over her spine. Zoey shudders, biting back a moan. How can he barely be touching her and  _ still _ driving her wild? She braces an arm on the tile, turning herself back around to meet his eyes, which are on her like hot coals.

_ Your body is a wonderland _

_ Your body is a wonder, I’ll use my hands _

_ Your body is a wonderland _

Still fully immersed in his heart song, Max reaches out for her, only to retract his hands at the last moment. Zoey whimpers in frustration, struggling to keep her grip on his slick skin. Her eyes snag on the ripple of muscle in his biceps, and it pushes her closer to the edge.

_ Something ‘bout the way _

_ Your hair falls in your face _

_ I love the shape you take when _

_ Crawling towards the pillowcase _

“Max, please,” she whispers, but his hands refuse to do anything except obey this infuriatingly sensual choreography, tracing the outline of her body up and down.

_ You tell me where to go _

_ And though I might leave to find it _

_ I’ll never let your head hit the bed _

_ Without my hand behind it _

_ Finally,  _ he touches her, but he does it so innocently that it only leaves her wanting more. Cupping Zoey’s cheeks in his hands, Max presses a soft kiss to her forehead. Mouth twisting in exasperation, she stands on her toes and preys on his lips, only for him to lean away again for the chorus.

_ Your body is a wonderland _

_ Your body is a wonder, I’ll use my hands _

“But you’re  _ not,”  _ Zoey protests, scrabbling to hold onto him through the thickening steam. (If there’s steam in the hallway outside her apartment by now, she wouldn’t be surprised.)

_ Your body is a wonderland _

_ I’ll never speak again, again— _

“Please don’t sing,” she groans.  _ “ _ Just  _ touch me,  _ Max.” He only gives her a crooked smile that just about kills her. The next few lines of song are murmured rather than sung, his voice husky and scraping at her soul.

_ Damn, baby _

_ You frustrate me _

Zoey scoffs. “I frustrate  _ you?”  _

_ I know you’re mine all mine, all mine _

_ But you look so good it hurts sometimes... _

The song goes into an instrumental break, but Zoey has reached her limit. With a grunt of effort, she takes Max’s face and captures his lips in the stream of water, seeking his mouth with every ounce of passion she has until they’re both rendered breathless. When Max steps back to catch his breath, she can tell the spell is broken.

Zoey stares up at him, her muscles trembling with desire. “You’re really something, you know that?” she breathes.

“Did I— did I sing?” Max asks, his eyebrows adorably knitted as he tries to decode her reaction. “What did I say?”

“To be honest, Max, I’m  _ so  _ tired of words,” Zoey says around a laugh. She reaches up a teasing hand to ruffle his wet hair, making the curls stick out at odd angles. 

Luckily, when he isn’t afflicted by a dripping hot heart song, Max is much more in tune with her pleasure. He presses his forehead to hers, pecking her nose while his hands work magic elsewhere. “Next time,” he hums, lips tickling the soft spot behind her ear, “I’ll sing you an original song.”

When he swings her gently to the wall, Zoey decides she is definitely looking forward to that promise. “I love you,” she tells him.

Their shared body heat could turn an ice-cold shower scalding hot. Zoey imagines there will be fog on the mirror for weeks. Max’s fingers dance over her skin, tickling her ribs like they’re piano keys. His mouth reaches wherever his hands don’t. “I love you, Zoey,” he responds, and  _ god,  _ she can tell.

They don’t end up getting to the shampoo.


	15. i'm gonna be (reprise)/a thousand miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A realization (or two), fluff, and the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just so happen to be posting this final chapter on my birthday, so it's been a great day all around! you guys have been the best gift of all, because without this lovely fandom this quarantine situation would be far less pleasant. this is dedicated to the wonderful humans who have given kudos, bookmarked, and shared their thoughts with me throughout this story, as well as the amazing people in the zep discord who are always the best people to discuss and freak out with. thank you. i never would've imagined this could break 100 kudos, let alone 200. it means the world to me and i wish you all the best <3 here's to hoping for a season 2, and keep an eye out for more fics from me... i never know when inspiration will strike!
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "i'm gonna be (500 miles)" by the proclaimers (but it's okay, just listen to skylar's version ;)), "a thousand miles" by vanessa carlton, and "lucky" by jason mraz & colbie caillat. fully updated playlist for this story can be found [HERE.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7daeUCo1yDeqNhsSXBJQuW?si=Oa3zxT69Ro6BwHIzy1ZrpQ)

With time, Max and Zoey discover that working on different floors isn’t all that bad. In fact, they find sanctuary in an unexpected place: the under-construction fifth floor, a perfect in-between location that’s only a _little_ bit creepy. They meet there at least once a day, even if it’s just for a quick kiss and catch-up before parting ways again. 

One quiet Friday, Joan sends Zoey a questioning glance when she leaves for her one-on-one session with Max. Remembering the strife of past bake-offs, Zoey assures her no top-secret Smartpants code transfers are going on. To that Joan says, “Okay, great. In that case, make sure you don’t get murdered up there, because I need you. You’re my favorite drinking buddy _and_ my second-favorite employee.”

Zoey frowns, tilting her head. “Wait, who’s your favorite employee?”

“Don’t bother getting offended, it’s just Sam. He literally never says a word, which I _love—_ and he’s a decent enough coder. Also, I’m being partly sarcastic here. I just don’t want people to think I’m biased if I say my favorite is the only other woman on this floor.” Zoey nods hesitantly, pretty sure she understands, and Joan sends her off with a wink before turning back toward her office.

Zoey heads for the elevator with a giant yawn. She stayed up late last night packing up her things at her apartment (it’s not her first time shoving her entire life into a bunch of cardboard boxes, but who knew it could be so... _draining?),_ and on top of that she and Max were running late this morning and didn’t even have enough time to grab coffee on-the-go.

Twenty minutes later, Max arrives on the fifth floor to find Zoey slumped down flat on the cement floor, dead to the world. Max approaches her, worried for a moment that she is _dead_ dead and the fifth floor does indeed uphold its creep factor, but then Zoey startles awake with a sneeze. 

She springs upward, dust cluttered in her hair, and Max shoves a belated coffee into her hands while holding up a bag of takeout. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty”— he checks the time on his SPRQWatch— “or good afternoon, rather. I’ve prepared for you the finest banquet of Thai takeout. Or would you prefer I tuck you back in under a toasty tarp blanket and let you resume your slumber?” 

He receives a mumbled, miserable “Shut up” quickly followed by a flood of giggles. (Because Max will never _not_ make her laugh.) “Listen, every single thing I say today can be applied to a ‘that’s what she said’ joke, which Tobin has made abundantly clear, _and_ JavaScript is making my head hurt, so I deserve some of _this_ java instead,” Zoey adds, throwing her head back and taking three scalding swigs of coffee.

Max opens his mouth to reply, only for Zoey’s phone to interrupt him with the default peppy ringtone. He smirks at her, sliding in a few words before she can answer the call— “So, ‘500 Miles’ _isn’t_ your ringtone for everyone, huh?”

“Oh, shush. You already knew that,” Zoey brushes him off before holding the device up to her ear. “Hey, Mom. What’s the matter?” she asks, immediately cringing at herself for assuming something must be wrong. _As if she needs any reminder that things have changed, for better or for worse._ Luckily, what her mom says next is able to loosen the knot of worry in her stomach.

“Nothing’s the matter, honey. Everything is fine. I was just wondering if you could stop by real quick on your lunch break. There’s something I found that I want to give you.”

Zoey slurps up a noodle, mocking Max’s exaggerated expression of disgust. “Oh, um, sure. Right now? And wait— it’s not another condolence casserole, is it? Because whatever Max is telling you on your phone calls, the truth is we’re both a little tired of food-related housewarming gifts.” (Needless to say, Ollie has been _well-_ fed lately.)

“It’s not a casserole, Zoey. I promise,” Maggie says, a touch of amusement in her tone.

“Okay, then... I will be right there,” Zoey tells her. She hangs up a moment later and shoots Max an apologetic smile. “Sorry, babe. Duty calls. And by duty I mean—”

“— being a good daughter?” Max finishes. Zoey’s smile falters as heated diffidence floods into her cheeks. “No worries,” he assures her. “I’ll see you later, okay?” He helps Zoey to her feet, then bends to collect what’s left of their lunch while Zoey chugs the rest of her nonfat latte. (Normally most people can’t stand drinking coffee with non-breakfast foods, but Zoey couldn’t care less. For five straight days in college, she sustained a diet of nothing but flamin’ hot Cheetos and iced coffee. Max has said he isn’t surprised by that, considering how much Zoey likes Hawaiian pizza.)

She gives Max a nice, long “I’m sorry” kiss before they board separate elevators— one to go up, and one to go down. Zoey didn’t ever think she could get used to it, but it turns out she has. She’s realized that when life changes are taken in one bite at a time— plus a lengthy chew-and-swallow adjustment period— those changes aren’t so bad, after all. 

Besides, there will always be the early mornings (waking up next to each other), the prolonged lunch breaks (jogging down the street, irresponsibly eating muffins for lunch), and the late nights (when they’re the only ones left in the entire building, and Max comes downstairs to sway lazily on the swinging chairs with her, exchanging bits of conversation like bits of the code that programs their love, squinting at computer screens into the early hours of the next day).

Just before the elevator doors slide shut, Zoey thinks she hears Max’s amused _“Hey!”_ when he finds the pack of spearmint gum she slipped in his pocket when they hugged goodbye. She still has to pay him back for that microwave, after all, and she’s only on pack number thirty-four.

* * *

Zoey enters her mom’s house quietly, hanging her jacket by the door and peering down the hallway. She casts a long glance over the empty living room, lingering for a moment on the end of the couch where her dad always used to be parked. Zoey doesn’t know why she expects to see him there; maybe she _wants_ to find his spirit, a faded image of him with a wavy outline, sitting there watching a documentary on the History Channel.

Setting aside her residual grief (what stage is she even at, anyway? She thinks she’s inching towards acceptance, but not _quite_ there yet), Zoey moves deeper into the house. She finds the kitchen abandoned too, the room dark and the counters bare except for a pie sitting on the island. Upon first glance, Zoey assumes it’s a fresh-baked one cooling. But when she inspects it she recognizes the Pie World packaging and sees that the dessert has already been broken into, with at least two hefty slices missing.

“Mom?” she calls again, and at last she gets a response. Perking up, Zoey walks into the small greenhouse attached to the back porch. She discovers Maggie sitting at the small table she seldom sets up in here when she wants to read or paint her nails while basking in the greenhouse’s warmth (or in the companionship of her plants). Zoey has a feeling her mom isn’t here for the plants’ companionship this time, however, because Maggie isn’t alone— Howie and her new friend Deb are with her, a casual card game laid out on the table between them.

More than a little dumbfounded, Zoey pauses in the entryway, brows lifted and jaw ajar. “Uh... hi,” she says, hoping her confusion won’t be mistaken for rudeness. “Mom... and company.”

Howie offers her a warm nod of greeting while he shuffles the deck of cards; meanwhile, Deb gives her a breezy wave between sips of what looks like an Arnold Palmer. Zoey has known Deb _just_ long enough to safely assume that her drink is probably spiked, because she knows the woman’s life motto is “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” the same cheesy phrase emblazoned on chintzy coasters and dish towels from gift shops. Still, Zoey can’t deny how much she appreciates the support Deb has provided her mom; as a fellow widow, she can relate to Maggie more than anyone else, so all their friendly shopping trips and pie shop hangouts mean a lot. Speaking of which, _now_ Zoey understands the open container of pie sitting in the kitchen.

“Zobug!” Maggie smiles, rising to her feet and pulling her daughter into a swift hug. “I know you can’t stay for too long, so I’ll make this quick.” She leads Zoey back into the kitchen.

“I have to say,” Zoey starts, lowering her voice to a polite yet conspiratorial whisper, “I’m a little surprised you’re entertaining guests before five. We all know about your very specific time slot for having people over.” Even as she says it, she knows her mom stopped adhering to that unstated policy a while ago, soon after Mitch first got sick. Not to mention the multiple occasions Max has stayed over long past midnight to help clean up after a big blowout or barbeque— though Zoey now realizes that just means he slipped past the rope dividing “friends” and “family” way before she initially noticed.

Maggie chuckles and comes to a stop at the island, pulling the wrap back off the partially-eaten pie. “Well, I’m not as strict about that anymore, but you’re also not wrong. I originally invited Deb and Howie over at a later time, but we had to push it earlier because of a thing that popped up tonight.” The end of her sentence slants into abrupt silence punctuated by the creak of the silverware drawer opening then closing. She turns back to hand Zoey a fork.

Zoey blinks at her, interest piqued. “What thing is tonight?”

“Oh, nothing,” Maggie says, and it’s just dismissive enough to increase Zoey’s curiosity. “It’s just a... thing. A small thing. No big deal.”

Finally Zoey accepts the fork, staring at it like it’s an alien object. “Right. Okay. Now you’re talking like me. There’s definitely something amiss here.” She holds up the utensil and grins stiffly as if she’s posing for a picture with it. “So, um, the fork... this isn’t what you wanted to give me, right? Because I have plenty—”

“No, no, I wanted to give you”— Maggie nudges the pie across the counter to her— “a taste of this pie. Tell me if you like it.”

Zoey raises her brows again. “Wait, is this seriously what you called me over here for? I mean, not that I’m particularly complaining, but...” She pauses to snag a bite of cherry filling on her fork and lift it to her mouth, covering her chewing with one hand. “I’ve had almost everything from Pie World already, Mom. Up to and including that limited ‘American Pie’ they made, the one with the strawberries, blueberries, and vanilla cream. It was so good but also kind of overwhelming. And weirdly... sad. I don’t know.”

Maggie only nods along to her words, smiling brightly. Zoey is well aware of how suspicious her mother is acting, but unfortunately she doesn’t have much wiggle room on her lunch break to question her. A quick glance at her SPRQWatch tells her she’s already down to twenty-five minutes left, and it will take fifteen of those alone to hoof it back into the city. At this point, she’s hoping for a heart song to clear things up, but things don’t seem to be headed in that direction when all Maggie says is, “So? The pie?”

“Is good,” Zoey answers, helping herself to a few more nibbles (or, more appropriately, gulps). “I mean, you know I’m more of a cheesequake girl now thanks to Simon, but this stuff is hard to resist.”

“Oh, well, you won’t have to worry about cheesequakes—” Again Maggie cuts herself off, and with a sigh Zoey puts her fork down.

“Okay, Mom. You’re acting _super_ strange and I know you’re not drinking one of Deb’s Arnold Palmers this early in the day, so what’s going on?”

Maggie flattens her smile into a thin, neutral line. “Aw, Zoey, is it such a crime for your old mom to want to see her grown-up daughter?”

Zoey almost stumbles on the guilt trip, but manages to catch herself. “Mom, if this is about—”

“I know about you and Max,” her mom interrupts, and Zoey’s train of thought comes to a screeching halt.

As a last-ditch effort, Zoey tries to play dumb. “Well... yeah, I told you we started dating a few months ago, and you know I’m moving into his place since I always stay over anyway—”

“Yes,” Maggie interrupts again, “but... I mean... I know about...” She trails off, eyes flashing down to the ring on Zoey’s right hand— _that_ ring. 

Zoey’s stomach drops through the floor. “How did— when—?” she sputters, brain scrambling to produce a coherent thought.

Her mom reaches over the counter to give her hand a squeeze. “It would be nice to say I knew when you couldn’t speak when you saw him holding Zach, or when you were somehow able to get him back in the hospital room to see your dad one last time, or when you left with him after the funeral. But the truth is, I knew when Max told me about getting friendship rings in Vegas. I mean, friendship rings? In _Vegas_ of all places? Come on.” Maggie snorts, and Zoey can’t help recoiling a little, shaken. “I know there was a lot going on with your brother and your father, but... don’t think I wasn’t observant about what was going on in your life, too. You’re my _daughter.”_

“So... all this time, you _knew?_ David didn’t tell you, or...” Zoey pauses when Maggie shakes her head. “But why didn’t you say anything?”

“I figured you two would tell me in your own time. Of course, I tried to get it out of you a few times, but...” Maggie shrugs. “You never did. I was hoping you weren’t _afraid_ to tell me, or _ashamed_ or anything. You know I would never condemn you for that, nor Max. I’ve viewed him as a second son for years now. And especially in recent times, the two of you have been so... _happy_ together, constantly jumping over the moon around each other. I always thought that if it makes you happy—”

“— it can’t be that bad,” Zoey finishes. Only now does she understand the lyrics Maggie sang all those weeks ago. All this time, it was about _her and Max._

For a moment, mother and daughter simply stare at each other, finally reaching an understanding. For the first time in months, no more big secrets are sitting between them, or so Zoey hopes. (The whole “having musical powers” thing is an issue for another day, she’s decided.) Then Maggie’s shocked expression relaxes into a soft smile. “Exactly,” she murmurs.

Zoey is sent back to work with a slice of pie, though not before Maggie slides in another off-kilter comment about pie and cheesequakes which sets off Zoey’s suspicion detector once again. There will be time to investigate that later, though, so Zoey says goodbye to Howie and Deb and leaves the trio to their card game and Arnold Palmers.

Zoey puts on her jean jacket and slips out the front door, humming to herself as she strolls down the sidewalk. She’s tempted to call a Lyft back to SPRQ Point, but something about this beautiful day is urging her to take her time (as much as her dwindling lunch break allows, at least) and soak up the sun. So Zoey continues walking, squinting through the blinding rays and _still_ humming. Okay, seriously, _why_ is she humming? She never— scratch that, _rarely—_ hums, not even since Max, Mo, _and_ her power have introduced her to more music. 

The weirdness escalates when she happens to look down at herself and finds that her denim jacket and work outfit are gone, replaced by a blue dress that Zoey swears she’s worn before at some point. When she tries to make herself stop humming the unfamiliar tune, her mouth opens and the incoming heart song begins—

_Makin’ my way downtown_

_Walkin’ fast, faces pass_

_And I’m homebound_

Zoey’s serene singing face morphs into a horrified frown, though her control over her own actions doesn’t last long before her power wrestles it away from her again. As she approaches a more crowded part of the city, the lyrics continue pouring off her unsuspecting tongue.

_Starin’ blankly ahead_

_Just makin’ my way_

_Makin’ a way through the crowd_

On the inside, Zoey is close to panicking. On the outside, she’s practically a Disney princess, beaming and trilling along to the invisible piano. As if she’s wandering through a movie set, she smoothly weaves between groups of people, neatly jumps over every crack in the sidewalk, and bends to help save a young kid’s ice cream from hitting the ground. The entire time, her singing doesn’t stop. The entire time, Zoey Clarke’s trademark clumsiness is notably absent. 

For the next few lines, a few cheery strangers hop in to form her entourage, matching Zoey’s moves step for step and backing her vocals. Zoey leans forward into the unrehearsed choreography, shaking her shoulders to the beat; by now, only a minimal amount of bewilderment shines in her wide eyes. As far as embarrassing moments go, she has definitely been through worse.

_And I need you_

_And I miss you_

_And now I wonder_

As Zoey gets closer to the SPRQ Point building, more and more passersby join in, gathering into an ensemble that follows her down another steep hill. By the time Zoey reaches the front doors, it seems like the entirety of San Francisco is taking part in her unplanned flash mob. Zoey has never been lucky (or, in her mind, unlucky) enough to witness a flash mob before, but she never imagined her first time awkwardly experiencing one would be her _own._

She starts to open the door, only for Max to emerge. The button down he’d had on earlier (the nice one with the sleeves that hug his biceps, not that she noticed) has disappeared, leaving him in a disheveled suit— an achingly _familiar_ suit, with a loosened tie and undone top buttons. He meets her eyes and Zoey tries to grab his shoulders, his arms, anything— but when she opens her mouth, all that comes out is “Max, I don’t know what—” before he interrupts her, and from the look on his face she knows he’s been roped into this heart song, too. He has the same adoring smile that is always directed at her, but the slightly glazed look in his eyes tells Zoey he won’t be much help here.

Taking her hand, Max leads Zoey over to the cement bleachers outside SPRQ Point’s entrance, nimbly mounting the benches in a few bounds. Once they’re at the top, Max rests his hands at the small of her back, leaning her as far away as possible before pulling her in close again. And with that, he starts singing the first heart song that truly touched Zoey’s, well, _heart._

_When I wake up, well, I know I’m gonna be_

_I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you_

_When I go out, yeah, I know I’m gonna be_

_I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you_

Zoey bites her lip, numbly following his lead as they spin around the platform. Every single person hunched on the bleachers have ditched their laptops and headphones to provide a rousing a cappella background to their vocals. Zoey knows by now that begging Max to snap out of it is pointless; but then the realization hits her that she doesn’t really _want_ him to stop. Or herself, apparently, because when she tries to speak she sings the chorus instead:

_If I could fall into the sky_

_Do you think time would pass me by?_

_‘Cause you know I’d walk a thousand miles_

_If I could just see you_

_Tonight_

Max flashes his pearly whites, as effortlessly suave as ever. Zoey always thought her power exaggerated the mannerisms of the people in her life, but somehow the Max in her head never bothers her. He’s still _him,_ and even when he’s the geek sitting on her couch thumbing through his DVD binder, he still makes her heart climb up her throat. 

When Zoey finishes her part, Max resumes his, smoothly dipping her close to the ground then lifting her again in a dizzying twirl. His hands slide up her arms, teasing the frayed edge of her torn sleeve.

_But I would walk five hundred miles_

_And I would walk five hundred more_

_Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles_

_To fall down at your door_

Hearing his reprise of “I’m Gonna Be,” one of the first songs that changed everything between them, is making Zoey actually _enjoy_ this daydream more and more. Max’s slower, subdued vocals combine flawlessly with the instrumentals of Zoey’s heart song. She knows this must be a glitch song, or _something_ weird, but it doesn’t seem right to call it a glitch when she’s singing her true feelings via a song that mirrors Max’s deepest sentiments. They are so perfectly in sync.

Zoey takes the lead on their dance number now, keeping a tight grip on Max’s hand as she guides them back down the bleachers, swerving among their admiring backup dancers. Along the way, she picks up her second verse.

_It’s always times like these when I think of you_

_And I wonder if you ever think of me_

_‘Cause everything’s so wrong, and I don’t belong_

_Livin’ in your precious memory_

The music swells, matching Max’s increased vigor when he belts out his part.

_When I’m lonely, well, I know I’m gonna be_

_I’m gonna be the man who’s lonely without you_

_And when I’m dreamin, well, I know I’m gonna dream_

_I’m gonna dream about the time when I’m with you_

_‘Cause I’ll need you_

_(I’m gonna be the man)_

_And I’ll miss you_

_(Who comes back home to you)_

After they bounce lines off each other, Max begins that soft, irresistible _“ta-da-da-ta, ta-da-da-ta”_ that hugs her soul, while Zoey finishes the bridge:

_I, I don’t wanna let you know_

_I, I drown in your memory_

_I, I don’t wanna let this go_

_I, I don’t..._

All the flash mob participants slow their movements, shifting from an upbeat dance into a near-standstill. Zoey and Max also slow down; with no need to catch their breaths in this daydream universe, they sing the last part together while gazing gently into each other’s eyes, noses brushing and foreheads a centimeter apart:

_And I would walk five hundred miles_

_And I would walk five hundred more_

_‘Cause you know I’d walk a thousand miles_

_If I could just see you_

_Tonight..._

Drawing out the last word into something wobbly and distinctively beautiful, Zoey touches the collar of Max’s rumpled suit with delicate fingertips, flipping it so it’s no longer inside out. She feels his own hand toying with the edge of her torn sleeve. A memory flashes through Zoey’s mind, a vague scene flickering like a candle flame: standing breathless with him under the hot lights of a stage, bar patrons swarming them, tripping and being caught in his arms, the sleeve of her blue dress snagging on the corner of the stage...

Zoey lifts her eyes again, and the illusion is gone. The only thing that remains unchanged is Max, who is still standing with her arms encircled around him. Once again Zoey is in her blouse and jean jacket, wind-mussed hair still spilling over her shoulders. Max’s outfit has reverted to the button down, though Zoey’s fingers are still playing with his collar.

Max encloses Zoey’s hand in his, slowly lowering it so both hands are joined at their waists. “There you are, Zo,” he murmurs, the faintest of smiles outlining his lips. “I was getting worried you lost your way. How’s your mom—”

She stands on her toes, pulling him into a kiss that could flood the surrounding streets with sweet liquid passion. Zoey is conscious of the people milling around them— their former backup dancers are now back to being disinterested strangers, some of whom have pinned irked looks on the pair of lovestruck coders. For just thirty seconds, Zoey allows herself not to care about that, because she can be selfish with Max, and it’s the greatest thing.

When the thirty seconds of bliss pass and normal insecurities set in again, Zoey breaks the kiss but keeps Max in her clutch. “You know,” she breathes, “I think... I think I _did_ lose my way for a little while there. But not anymore.” She fixes him with a firm, almost stern stare. “Max, we’re being stupid.”

He stands there with his lips slightly parted and a puzzled slant to his brow, and Zoey doesn’t think she’s ever loved anyone more. “We are?” Max asks. “Listen, Zoey, if PDA is stupid, then that’s fine, I get that’s probably not your thing. But I, for one, _did_ enjoy it—”

_“No,”_ she laughs, pushing an affectionate hand into his chest. “No, I mean— I don’t wanna divorce you.”

Any last hint of humor drains out of his face along with the color, leaving him paler than Zoey in the dead of winter. “You— what?”

“You’re my _forever,_ Max. I want to keep our ridiculous Vegas marriage. I wanna turn these precious antique friendship rings into what they’re meant to be,” Zoey tells him, raising their joined hands. “Hell, I’ll even frame that wrinkled marriage certificate from The Little Vegas Chapel, and I’ll frame that blurry drunk selfie we took that night and hang them next to each other on one of your boring gray walls!”

The corner of Max’s mouth quirks up. “My _boring_ gray walls?”

“Is that _really_ what you’re dwelling on out of everything I just said?”

“Of course not,” he assures her. “And I mean, to be fair, you _are_ right. My walls could use a little spicing up—”

“Maxwell Richman,” Zoey whines. “Do you want me to divorce you?” She jabs a threatening finger into his chest. “Because I’ll do it!”

His overly innocent expression drops into a mischievous narrowing of his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare! How can David and Emily name us Zach’s godparents if we’re bitterly divorced?”

_“Amicably_ divorced, you mean,” Zoey corrects him. “Also, _what?_ When did you hear— right. Phone call with my mom.”

Max nods. “Yep. Phone call with your mom. She and Mary made up, by the way, and now Maggie is doing the floral arrangements for Mary’s daughter-in-law’s baby shower.”

Zoey shakes her head in awe, still reeling somewhat from the godparent revelation. “I swear, you know more about my family than _I_ do,” she says in friendly admonishment. But really, that tells her all she needs to know— all these years, it’s _always_ been Max. It just took one not-so-little mishap to realize it.

* * *

“Okay, so wait— I sang a reprise of what I sang on the night of Simon’s engagement party? The scooter song?”

Zoey nods as they walk down the steps of the courthouse. Ahead of them lays a gorgeous summer evening, with a relaxing weekend beyond that. The sky is “Zoey’s eye blue,” as Max likes to call it, and spears of mellowed afternoon sunlight shoot through the wispy clouds. Traffic is flowing steadily, leaving no time for people to wave their arms through the sunroofs of their cars and rant out heart songs about traffic jams. _What a beautiful day to get un-divorced,_ Zoey thinks. She sends a quick glance over her shoulder at the building behind them, and decides she’s quite glad they won’t have to visit the courthouse again anytime soon. She is eager to forget all the bewildered looks the court clerks gave Max and Zoey when they ran in there desperate to withdraw anything and everything having to do with their not-so-separate separation.

“Yeah, you sang the scooter song. And I was singing something that was _kind of_ similar? It was also talking about a thousand miles. I don’t know why we have this obsession with that number of miles,” Zoey says. “I mean, what happens when we reach a thousand and _one_ miles, you know?”

“Well, then I guess we’re in trouble,” he quips as they reach the end of the steps.

Zoey lands on the sidewalk and glares at him.

“Wrong answer?” Max winces. “What I meant to say was, I would go on _forever_ for you, Zo, whether it be on foot, by scooter, or by car.”

Satisfied, she gives a curt nod and starts to lead him down the street. “That’s better. I feel likewise, by the way.”

“I would sure hope so,” he chuckles.

“It’s just that...” Zoey sighs and halts again, nearly jerking Max back when their joined arms stay rooted to the spot. “Okay, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” she begins while he turns to face her. By pure coincidence, someone on a scooter nearly runs into them, and Max grips her shoulders, neatly moving them out of the way of other pedestrians. 

Without any more hesitation, Zoey launches into her speech. “I know life doesn’t always turn out the way we plan it to, especially when it comes to literally _everything_ that’s happened between us. I mean, we’ll probably never get to meet the on-site cow at Handpicked, and sometimes it seems like the only constant here is this jean jacket, which I might have to wear 24/7 now because apparently I only make questionably good decisions while wearing blue. But Max, I want to be married to you on our own terms, our own _sober_ terms, the way we want it to happen after extensive planning and stressing the way it should be done. We can have my mom do the flowers, though probably— no, _definitely_ not any rose walls. Oh! Maybe dahlias, because they were my dad’s favorite, and, well, Dahlia _is_ my middle name. And if Zach is old enough to walk he can be the ring-bearer, and maybe David could take me down the aisle because I will have _way_ too much anxiety to walk by myself, and we could fly in some of your family from New York, and—”

“Zo.”

“— I know it would be a lot, and maybe kind of overwhelming, but I want this to be something we can look forward to, and— what?” Zoey’s rambling falters, knocked off course by the glowing amusement on Max’s face.

Max’s hands haven’t left Zoey’s shoulders, but now they travel up to the sides of her face, where his thumbs gently nudge away wild wisps of red hair. He leans down slightly so they’re level with each other, then he says with all the fluffiest affection possible, “Zoey Clarke-slash-Richman, you are _extraordinary,_ you know that? I love the way you worry about killing a spider, but are happy to mutilate kitchen appliances. I love how you’ll be just as determined to finish a movie marathon as you are to work out every last bug in the code for a work project— and how you’ll stay up until two in the morning for both things. I love how you’re already planning what I assume will be an epic vow renewal-type ceremony when I haven’t even asked you the most important question yet.”

Zoey stares at him, unable to think of anything else to say besides, “And... what question is that?”

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Will you marry me?” He smiles bashfully, but his eyes don’t stray from hers. “Again?”

She blinks, and suddenly the bustling city around them is blurry through the tears that have gathered. “Oh,” she gasps softly. Zoey isn’t sure what to do with her hands, but she knows she wants to be touching him, so she grabs fistfuls of Max’s hair and starts sniffling. “Okay, um, wow.” Max says nothing, only continuing to stare calmly at her, and holy _crap,_ he’s proposing to her right here, right now, in the middle of a busy sidewalk on some random Friday in August, and it’s too perfect, because this is just like them— on a whim, yet so superbly... _normal._

“Zoey?” he asks after a minute. “I love hearing your voice, but I kind of want to get to the part where I spin you around and kiss you, so—”

She pulls his face down to hers, latching onto his lips as if they’ll never get to do this again. “Yes,” she whispers into his mouth, then kisses him again. “Yes, I will marry you. Of _course_ I will, because we already are. But, um— do you think you could—”

Almost reading her mind, she feels Max start to kneel down into the proper proposal position, only for Zoey to slip her hands under his arms and lift him back up. “Actually,” she laughs apologetically, “I’m sorry, I _do_ want you to get down on one knee, I want that _very very_ much, but we _are_ in a public place, so maybe wait until we get home because otherwise I’ll get all embarrassed and flushed and panicky and— ugh, I might already be at that point—”

Max cuts her off with a new kiss, one that lasts longer this time, and with it every last fragment of doubt is swallowed into oblivion. Zoey sweeps her tongue over his lower lip, inviting herself into his mouth, and she _thinks_ she hears somebody wolf-whistle at them, but she couldn’t be sure because the only thing she hears clearly is the rapid beating of her heart and the blood roaring in her ears.

When they eventually separate, Max’s look has shifted into something more serious again. “I know we already have rings,” he says, “but I can get you something new, if you want.”

“Are you kidding? These rings are _perfect,”_ Zoey replies. In one fluid motion, she holds up her right hand, plucks off the silver band, and hands it over to him. Max smiles, takes the simple ring— it really does complement her minimal taste— and slides it onto the appropriate finger. “There,” she says. “That’s _much_ better.”

“I love you,” he says, pecking her forehead.

“I love you, too,” she answers. _You_ and _your gorgeous nipples._ When Max’s radiant stare crumbles into a laugh, Zoey realizes that she might have spoken that private thought out loud. Oops.

Just when she’s preparing to kiss him again, Zoey’s phone rings. It really has a bad habit of doing that.

* * *

Zoey frowns in confusion as they climb the stairs in her old apartment building. “Mo said I forgot something in my old place, a poster or something? I’m not sure _how_ I managed to do that, because I know we quadruple-checked everything before we left the last time.”

Max shrugs, peering curiously around her shoulder as they turn the corner at the landing and continue up. “We could’ve picked it up sometime this weekend.”

“I know, but you heard how insistent he was that we come here immediately,” Zoey says around a puzzled giggle. “It’s probably something that’s much too ‘Zoey-fied’ or whatever, and he wants it gone from his future walk-in closet so it doesn’t cramp his style.”

“Fair enough. As long as he doesn’t come to our apartment— man, I _love_ saying _‘our_ apartment,’” Max says, gleefully getting sidetracked for a moment, “— and insist on painting all my walls in SPRQ Point yellow, then we’re good.”

“Okay, the walls are an issue that will be addressed in the future, though. Just because you work on the sixth floor now doesn’t mean you have to bring the sixth floor’s sleek charm, or rather lack thereof, into _our_ home.” Zoey stops when they reach the second floor. Mo’s place seems to be quiet, while the door to Zoey’s old apartment is thrown wide open. “Huh,” she mumbles, stepping inside with a curious glance around. “No need to ask him to borrow my old key, then.”

Max follows her in and marvels at the stark emptiness of the place: bare walls, vacant rooms, cleared out cupboards. Zoey lets out a quiet sigh as she moves further inside towards the kitchen. Her fingers trail along the couple pieces of left behind furniture as she walks. “I _will_ kind of miss living here,” she admits, coming to a stop by the island. The only appliance she took with her when moving out was— no guess needed— that nice red microwave.

“I don’t blame you,” Max says, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. “You were here for almost six years. That’s a lot of memories.”

“And a lot of movie nights,” she supplies, making him grin. She spins around slowly, taking in all the familiar marks on the floor and all the spiderweb cracks in the ceiling. “I think I’ll really miss having Mo right across the hall. Not sure if he could say the same about me, though. An 800 square foot walk-in closet is hard to beat.”

Zoey feels his hands touch her waist, and she lets Max spin her around, leading her in a relaxed, casual waltz across the empty floor of her former kitchen. The silence backing their dance is heavy, bursting with memories of the life Zoey lived between these walls: moving in right out of college, bumbling her way through her first year at SPRQ Point, introducing Max to her dad’s hot cocoa recipe, learning she would become someone’s sister-in-law (and later, someone’s aunt), and realizing she had one of the most unusual superpowers in existence. Zoey presses her forehead into Max’s shoulder while he leans closer into her, bringing their dance to a quiet close. No heart songs are needed to emphasize the poignancy of this moment; they just _know._

Zoey scans over the kitchen one last time: at the scorch mark on the floor from when she nearly electrocuted herself trying to rearrange the guts of a toaster; at the scuff mark on the side of the island from when Max lifted her onto the counter mid-make out session; at the burn mark above the stove from the one and only time she tried to make a recipe from a cookbook.

“It’s been a bittersweet couple of years,” she speaks up after a while, breaking the silence to head back towards the entryway. “And an especially bittersweet six months. In that span of time, we accidentally got married, my nephew was born, my dad died, you got promoted to the sixth floor, we almost got divorced, and then we immediately got engaged while still technically being married.”

“Talk about eventful,” Max agrees. Then Zoey freezes, and he leans around her to see what she’s staring at.

Hanging on the wall next to the open front door is her “Everything’s Under CTRL” poster, the one that has been consistently crooked for months— only now, its tilt is gone. Zoey approaches it almost as if it isn’t real. She can’t decide if she is more surprised by it still being here, or by the fact that it is finally sitting straight.

“I could’ve sworn I put this at the top of the last box,” she mutters, looking back at Max for a second before returning her stunned stare to the poster. “Am I crazy? I thought I saw it when Mo helped load that box into the truck— _oh.”_

A knowing smirk emerges on Max’s face. “You really think Mo stole your poster and hung it back on the wall just to get you back here one last time?”

Zoey groans in exasperation. “I didn’t think he would miss me _that_ much. It’s not like I’m moving to a new continent!” Then her expression softens, and she pushes out her lower lip slightly, eyes sparkling with a fresh batch of tears. “Actually, when you think about it, it’s kind of sweet he would do this for me. Subtle, but... sweet.”

Max steps up next to her, crossing his arms while she tilts her head thoughtfully at the poster. “So... do you wanna take it back?”

Zoey considers for a moment. “Hold on.” She marches across the hall just as she’s done so many times before, then lays three quick knocks on Mo’s door. Max joins her, and Zoey gives him a gentle elbow in the ribs as she calls out confidently, “Okay, Mo, I see what you’re trying to do, but you can just _tell_ me how much you miss me.” When there’s no immediate response, her jovial smirk wavers, and she tries knocking again. “Are you... in there? Listen, I don’t mind you stealing my poster. I know it’s that cheesy coder humor that annoys you, but if you seriously wanna keep it for your walk-in closet, it’s yours—”

The door swings open right when Zoey is getting ready to knock a third time, resulting in her stumbling forward. Max catches her, and Zoey straightens again, offering her ex-neighbor an overly friendly wave. “Hey!” she chirps. “How, uh, how’s it goin’, Cup of Mo? Get it, it’s like ‘cup of joe’ except—”

Mo raises a hand to silence her blathering. “Child, you know you mean a lot to me, but I am less interested in your nerdy poster than I am in your troubling wardrobe.” With that, he steps aside and indicates the crowd of people behind him which Zoey has only just noticed. “Now what I _am_ interested in is your party.”

Zoey tries to shut her drooping jaw, to no avail. “Wha— _my_ party?”

“Well, it’s for both of you,” Mo explains, gesturing at both her and Max. He draws his face into a sugary sweet smile despite what he says next. “It’s your divorce party! Surprise!”

Everyone in the apartment explodes into cheers, and someone— Tobin, Zoey thinks— shoots off some type of confetti bomb. She skims over all the familiar faces, jaw dropping even more when she spots Simon, who gives a shy wave, and her mom, who is standing next to a table full of pies and cheesequakes. (Suddenly, her earlier visit to Maggie makes sense.) When Zoey leans forward and squints, she’s able to read some of the phrases written on the desserts, which are all varying versions of “I Do,” “I Did,” and “I’m Done.”

“Aw...” Zoey mutters, exchanging a glance with Max. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I had to! I mean, y’all’s little together-but-not-together predicament is weird as hell, but the Pinterest ideas for this were just too good,” Mo says, looking quite proud of himself. 

“No, really,” Max speaks up with a rueful grimace. “You _shouldn’t_ have, Mo. Because, um, me and Zoey are... we’re not getting divorced after all.”

Mo’s smile falls. “You gotta be kidding me,” he deadpans.

“But!” Zoey says, eager to step in and save the situation, “There _is_ a call for celebration— or, uh, whatever this was meant to be— because Max and I just got engaged! Again. Even though we never really were before, but...”

“So that’s what you’re labelling it now?”

Max blushes. “Well, we’re still technically married in the eyes of the law, but we’ll be having a ceremony at some point—”

Mo claps his hands together, effectively cutting him off. “Ah! A wedding that we’ll all be _invited_ to this time. That’s all I needed to hear.” He spins around and snaps his fingers, indicating for Eddie to turn on some music. “People, we have an engagement party to throw! Let’s do this!”

Everyone cheers again, except for Leif, who mumbles, “So you’re telling me I spent three hours rehearsing a dramatic rendition of my parents’ divorce battle for no reason?” An uncomfortable silence descends on the room while everybody turns to look at him. Leif shrinks into his cardigan and hides his face in his drink. “I mean, what? That’s not at all something I did...”

The party picks up again, with Joan and Deb helping themselves to an “I’m Done” pie while Emily tries to balance a party hat on baby Zach’s head. The two guests of honor still hesitate in the doorway; when Max gives Zoey’s hand a squeeze, she turns and looks at him fondly. Oh, she is _so_ ready to enjoy every single second being engaged-slash-married to this dork.

“So what do you say?” Max asks, a warm smile touching his lips. “A thousand and one miles?”

“Sounds good to me,” Zoey tells him. Tugging on his arm, she pulls him inside the apartment, stealing another kiss while the door falls shut behind them.

_Lucky I’m in love with my best friend_

_Lucky to have been where I have been_

_Lucky to be coming home again._


End file.
